By 

DAVID 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


I 

• 


Da^id  Barker, 


JOHN  E.  GODFREY. 


THIRD     EDITION. 


AUGUSTA,    MAINE  : 
E.    E.     KNOWLKS    &    CO.,     PUBLISHERS. 


\ 


COPYRIGHT 

SUSAN  C.  BARKER,   WIDOW. 
WALTER  ('.,  AM>  MAUDE  BARKER, 

CHILDREN  OF 
HA  VI  I)     BARKER. 


PS 


'. 

18 


CONTENTS 


Biographical  and  Historical  Sketch 7 

My  First  Courtship 17 

MASONIC  POEMS. 

A  Welcome  to  the  Hugh  De  Payen  Commandery 107 

A  Welcome  to  St.  John  and  Union  De  Molay  Coramanderies 109 

Courting  a  Mason's  Daughter Ill 

Faith,  Hope  and  Charity 113 

(Jive  Them  Bread  and  Not  a  Stone 114 

John  Warner's  Not  Dead 116 

Lines  Written  for  the  One  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  Fredericksburg  Lodge,117 

Meeting  of  Northern  and  Southern  Masons  in  Massachusetts 1S."> 

M  y  I  -ust  Request 110 

Ode 120 

The  Mason's  Farewell l^li 

The  Mason's  Death  and  Burial li" 

The  Sign  of  Distress 125 

The  Templars 127 

To  Kossuth 120 

To  J.  D.  Willard  of  N.  Y \::-> 

Try  the  Square |:)4 

RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

Death  of  Kmma  Hill,  at  Kxetor,  Me 130 

Keep  to  the  Right   140 

Laying  of  the  Corner  Stone 141 

1'rayer 143 

The  Covered   Uridge 144 

The  I'ale  Boatman 14C 

The  Atheist's  Last  Look  ...147 

Thoughts  at  a  Funeral 149 

When.  Where  and  How  Shall  1  Die 150 


762890 


CONTEXTS. 


MORAL  AND  SENTIMENTAL. 

All  at  Homo • 1&5 

Act  Yourself 156 

A  Short  Story  With  a  Moral..., 158 

A  Solace  for  Dark  Hours 159 

At  the  Front • 162 

Billy  Dee 163 

Disconnected  Rhymes 164 

Fannie  Ward 165 

Karly  Recollections 167 

Hope  of  Bliss 173 

Influence  and  Retribution  174 

I  Think  So,  Don't  You.... 176 

Let  Them  Talk 177 

Light 178 

Lines  to  My  Dead  Dog 180 

Love  of  Life 181 

Make  Your  Mark...    183 

Mary  Dee 1*5 

Mary  Hall ' ....186 

Mimchausen's  Bugle 188 

My  Child's  Origin 190 

My  Dream 191 

My  Sister 19t 

Never  Get  Ready  to  Die  195 

Never  Mind 196 

Old  Rufus  Ray 198 

Only  She  and  I 200 

One  World  at  a  Time 201 

Pious  Like  Hell 202 

Prayers  and  Kisses 204 

Stop  Thief  205 

The  Bevelled  Grindstone 206 

The  Blind   Gateman 208 

The  Bradbury  Boys .210 

The  Blade  of  Corn 213 

The  Dove 214 

The  Fools  Ain't  All, Dead  215 

The  Hunchback  Boy 218 

The  Know-Xothin^s 219 

The  I-adies'  Man -J21 

The  Poet's  Invitation 223 

The  Poor  Wood-Hauler • 224 

The  Profligate  Son    to  His  Dying  Mother 225 

The  Song  of  the  Old  Boys  and  Girls 227 

The  Two  Prisoners 229 

The  I'lifinished  Task !.._>3o 

The  Teachings  of  Philosophy 231 


CONTEXTS. 


To  Leather  French. 232 

The  Shepherd  and  the  Lamb 234 

The  Under  Dog  in  the  Fight 235 

To  Moll  Molasses 236 

To  8.  C.  Who  Sent  Me  a  Withered  Leaf iis 

To  Sue 239 

Try  Again         ....   240 

What  of  That 242 

Where  the  Old  Folks  Lived  and  Died -J4t 

When  You  and  I  Were  Boys L'4(; 

PATRIOTIC  POEMS. 

A    Welcome  to  the  2nd  Maine  Regiment 251 

A  Compromise 2:">3 

From  Maine  to  Massachusetts  About  the  Burns'  Case 255 

Freedom's  Battle  Cry 257 

General  Berry 258 

Gunboat  Rhymes '2m 

Imitation 261 

Jack  Frost  to  Yellow  Jack 26:.' 

Let  Us  Have  Peace 264 

Levi  Emerson,  the  First  Volunteer 267 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  John  Oakes  2(>s 

Lines  Addressed  to  John  A.  Hill 269 

Old  Willey 270 

Pat  Golden 27 '> 

The  Old  Camp  Ground -77 

The  Old  Ship  of  State 279 

The  Empty  Sleeve 2SO 

The  Soldiers  of  Meduxnekeag  232 

To  John  Brown  in  Prison 284 

The  Rebellion 2«5 

You  Thousand  of  Men 201 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

A  Thought 295 

A  Bachelor's  Life  For  Me 2!)»i 

After  Marriage '-!9  s 

An  Hour  With  Tom  Plumadore ^!l!) 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean 300 

Apostrophe  to  a  Gong 302 

By  Hokey ,  Them  Is  Pretty  Verses -W4 

Cornele 306 

Five  Stanzas  ".Os 

Flopdoddle 3W 

Good-Bye  to  the  Legislature 311 

4i  reclines* .  .".12 


CONTENTS. 


Katahdin  Iron  Worku 357 

Lines—  Wendell  Phillip.-  on  Lout  Arts 314 

My  Boy 315 

Mehetabel  Junking 316 

Midnight  Melodies  318 

Saxon  Pluck  319 

Steamboat  Knitting 322 

Tea  Cheat  Lead 324 

The  Lion  and  the  Skunk 326 

The  Fourth  of  July  at  Belfast 328 

The  Hammer  and  the  Anvil 333 

The  Levant  Convention 334 

The  Meadow-King  Mower 338 

The  Reform  School 340 

The  Six  Fellows  341 

The  Third  Cremation 345 

The  Wheat  and  the  Tare* 348 

To  <iovernor  Coney 34j> 

To  the  Rabble 350 

Touch  Not  the  Bowl 352 

Private  Remarks  to  the  American  Eagle 353. 

What  Is  True  Poetry 356 


BIOGRAPHY. 


Nearly   thirty   years   ago  there   appeared  in  the  New 
York  Evening  Post  the  following  stanzas  : — 

MY  CHILD'S  ORIGIN. 

One  night,  as  old  Saint  Peter  nlt>pt, 

He  left  the  door  of  Heaven  ajar, 
When  through,  a  little  angel  crept, 

And  came  down  with  a  falling  star. 

One  summer,  as  the  blessed  beams 

Of  morn  approached,  my  blushing  bride 
Awakened  from  some  pleasing  dreams, 

And  found  that  angel  by  her  side. 

<;<id  grant  but  this— I  ask  no  more — 

That  when  he  leaves  this  world  of  sin 
He'll  wing  his  way  for  that  blest  shore 

And  find  that  door  of  heaven  again. 

The  lines  immediately  attracted  attention  and  were 
copied  extensively  into  the  newspaper  press  throughout 
the  country.  Governor  Andrew  was  so  impressed  by 

V \J 

F* TB 


BIOGUAPJIV 


them  that  he  carried  them  with  him,  affirming  that  they 
were  the  "sweetest  lines  he  ever  read." 

Of  course  their  paternity  was  soon  discovered,  and  the 
name  of  David  Barker  became  familiar.  That  such  charm 
ing  verses  should  escape  the  profane  hand  of  the  paro 
dist  was  too  much  to  expect,  when  those  of  Longfellow 
and  Whittier  could  not.  They  came  out  from  under  it, 
however,  with  a  greater  lustre,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
momentary  shock  to  his  sensibilities  when  it  first  fell  un 
der  his  eye,  Mr.  Barker  had  the  satisfaction  that  it  "has 
done  a  world  of  good,  nevertheless  ;"  and  of  knowing  that 
his  little  gem  would  sparkle  when  parody  and  parodist 
were  buried  in  oblivion. 

Other  productions  of  Mr.  Barker  have  added  no  little 
to  his  reputation.  Among  them,  "The  Old  Ship  of 
State,"  "The  Under  Dog  in  the  Fight,"  "The  Covered 
Bridge"  and  "The  Empty  Sleeve,"  have  met  with  great 
favor.  That,  however,  which  in  the  opinion  of  many  of 
liis  friends,  will  be  most  enduring,  is  his  longest  poem, 
"My  First  Courtship.  "There  is  so  much  apparent  reality 
in  the  scenes  described  in  that  poem,  and  many  of  the 
forms  of  expression  adopted  are  so  happily  introduced, 
that  the  people  of  his  region,  to  whom  their  significance 
is  clear,  will  recur  to  it  with  delight. 

In  the  last  years  of  his  life,  this  poem  was  read  by  Mr. 
Barker  to  many  audiences  in  different  parts  of  the  State, 
and  from  the  admirable  faculty  he  had  of  inoffensively 
pressing  into  his  service,  on  occasion,  the  names  of  prom- 


BIOGRAPHY. 


inent  individuals  in  the  assembly,  as  if  they  were  one  of 
the  dramatis  persomc.  he  created  great  amusement 
among  his  hearers. 

Mr.  Barker  was  born  and  reared,  and  spent  the  chief 
part  of  his  life  in  the  thrifty,  agricultural  town  of  Exeter, 
in  the  State  of  Maine.  At  the  time  of  his  birth,  the  pop 
ulation  of  that  town  was  composed  chiefly  of  sensible, 
hard-working,  enterprising  people,  who  had  immigrated 
thither,  poor,  but  with  a  determination  to  have  a  share 
in  the  world's  prosperity.  Among  these  pioneers  was 
Nathaniel  Barker,  a  native  of  Exeter,  New  Hampshire, 
then  late  a  resident  of  Limerick,  Maine.  He  came  in 
1803,  and  was  instrumental  in  having  the  name  of  his 
native  town  given  to  this  one  of  his  adoption.  He  took 
up  a  farm,  and,  in  1807,  married  Sarah  Pease,  then  of 
Exeter,  but  born  in  Parsonfield,  Maine,  a  wife  not  be 
hind  him  in  heroism  and  enterprise.  Ten  children  were 
the  fruit  of  the  marriage,  the  sixth  of  whom  was  David. 

David  was  born  September  9,  1816.  When  in  his 
seventh  year,  the  family  were  thrown  into  deep  affliction 
by  the  death  of  the  father,  who  was  accidently  killed  in 
Bangor,  by  his  team,  in  1823.  The  suddenness  of  the 
calamity  was  sufficient  to  unnerve  a  person  of  less  sensi 
bility  than  the  widow  ;  but  though  overwhelmed  with 
grief,  she  at  once  comprehended,  and  bravely  assumed 
her  double  responsibility.  It  was  important  that  she 
should  know  what  were  her  resources  for  the  support  of 
her  family.  She  found  that  her  husband's  estate  must  be 


IO 


BIOGRAPHY. 


administered  upon,  and  relying  mainly  upon  herself, 
she  commenced  early  proceedings  in  the  Probate  Court, 
riding  on  horse-back  nearly  thirty  miles  over  devious 
bridle-paths  and  rough  roads,  to  and  from  Bangor,  in 
doing  her  business.  She  discovered  that  the  estate  was 
insolvent;  and  all  she  could  obtain,  with  which  to  sustain 
her  young  family,  was  an  allowance  of  three  hundred  dol 
lars  from  the  Judge  of  Probate,  and  a  trifle  of  dower. 
But,  with  this  little  property  and  the  encouragement  of 
her  older  children,  she  resolved  to  make  the  attempt  to 
live  independently  of  outside  assistance.  She  \vas  upon 
the  farm  that  her  husband  had  purchased,  but  it  was  in- 
cumbered  for  more  than  it  was  worth.  She  and  her 
children  determined  to  redeem  it,  and  they  did  ;  and  she 
lived  upon  that  farm  at  the  time  of  her  death,  which  oc- 
cured  a  few  years  since — at  the  age  of  ninety-two. 

David  was  too  young  at  the  time  of  his  father's  death 
to  be  of  much  assistance  to  his  mother,  but  he  earlv 
learned  that  he  must  depend  upon  himself  when  he  had 
attained  to  sufficient  age.  He  had  ambition  for  knowledge, 
and  was  an  apt  scholar.  Until  about  sixteen  years  of 
age,  he  had  only  the  advantages  of  the  common  school. 
He  had  then,  by  his  industry,  obtained  sufficient  means 
to  enable  him  to  attend  the  Academy  in  Foxcroft.  In 
that  excellent  school  he  made  such  proficiency  that,  after 
a  time  he  was  employed  in  it  as  an  assistant.  After 
leaving  Foxcroft  he  engaged  in  school  teaching,  and  soon 
became  so  popular  as  a  teacher  that  his  services  for 


BIOGRAPHY.  I  I 


schools  were  always  in  demand.  He  was  employed  in 
his  own  and  neighboring  towns,  and  was  called  away 
from  home  as  far  as  Eastport,  where  he  exercised  his  skill 
as  instructor  most  satisfactorily. 

But  it  was  not  his  intention  to  make  teaching  his  voca 
tion.  When  Samuel  Cony,  (the  late  Governor  Cony) 
first  established  himself  as  a  lawyer  in  Exeter,  Mr. 
Barker  entered  his  office  to  qualify  himself  for  the  pro 
fession  of  the  law.  He  made  due  proficiency,  and  was 
with  that  gentleman  until  he  removed  to  Oldtovvn.  Mr. 
Barker  then  went  into  an  office  in  Bangor,  and  not  long 
afterwards  was  admitted  to  the  Bar.  He  opened  his  law 
office  in  Exeter,  and  was  in  successful  practice  there 
until  within  two  or  three  years  before  his  death, when  his 
physical  system  had  become  so  shattered  that  he  did  lit 
tle  else  than  occasionally  occupy  himself  in  poetical  com 
position  ;  reading  sometimes  in  public  when  he  felt  strong 
enough.  But  the  time  came  at  last  when  he  had  to  re 
linquish  that  delightful  employment. 

While  on  a  visit  to  his  friends  in  Bangor — yet  main 
taining  the  belief  that  many  years  were  in  store  for  him — 
lie  quietly  sunk  into  his  final  slumber.  He  died  at  the 
house  of  his  brother,  Mark  Barker,  Esq.,  Sept.  14,  1874, 
at  the  age  of  fifty-eight  years. 

At  the  next  term  of  the  Supreme  Judicial  Court,  in 
October,  Judge  John  A.  Peters  presiding,  the  following 
resolutions  of  the  Penobscot  Bar  were  presented  by  Hon. 
Josiah  Crosby,  accompanied  by  an  eloquent  and  touching 
tribute  to  his  memory  : 


BIOGRAPHY. 


Resolved*  That  the  members  of  the  Penobscot  Bar 
have  heard  with  deep  sensibility  the  announcement  of  the 
death  of  Brother  David  Barker,  a  member  of  this  Bar. 

That  as  a  mark  of  respect  to  his  memory,  we  desire  to 
put  on  record  our  cheerful  testimony  to  his  ability  as  a 
lawyer,  his  amiability,  urbanity  and  unquestioned  integ 
rity  :  and  we  shall  ever  remember  with  much  interest 
those  other  gifts  by  which  he  was  distinguished  in  the 
lists  of  poetic  fame. 

That  these  proceedings  be  recorded,  and  a  copy  of  the 
same  be  communicated  to  his  family  by  the  Secretary,  in 
token  of  our  sympathy  with  them  in  their  great  bereave 
ment. 

Mr.  Crosbv.  who  knew  him  well  —  having  for  many 
years  been  his  nearest  neighbor  of  the  profession  —  said  : 

••His  ability  and  attainments  in  the  legal  profession, 
notwithstanding  constant  feebleness  of  health,  were 
highly  respectable  ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  had  his 
health  been  firm,  and  his  physical  powers  equal  to  his 
mental,  he  might  have  attained  to  a  distinguished  position 
at  the  bar.  Those  of  his  brethren  who  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  years  since  were  accustomed  to  meet  him  in  the 
conflicts  of  the  arena,  will  well  remember  that  victory 
over  such  an  antagonist  was  not  easily  won.  Feebleness  of 
health,  seated  upon  the  nervous  system,  had  a  tendency 
to  create  a  disrelish  for  the  combative  part  of  legal  practice 
which  he  finally  relinquished  and  gladly  sought  a  purer 
and  higher  enjoyment  in  the  fascinating  realms  of  poesy. 

In  his  practice  he  was  ever  honest  and  honorable. 
His  word  was  never  doubted.  Sympathy  for  the  distressed 
was  a  most  prominent  trait.  He  never  oppressed  the  poor, 
never  treated  them  with  haughtiness,  never  trod  upon 
their  feelings.  His  heart  and  purse  were  ever  open  to 
the  calls  of  charity.  His  poem  on  the  Masonic  sign  of 
distress  could  never  have  originated  with  one  not  in  sym 
pathy  with  the  unfortunate.  It  was  this  trait,  undoubtedly, 
which,  when  many  years  ago  to  be  called  an  abolitionist. 


t 


BIOGRAPHY.  13 


was,  in  the  minds  of  most  people,  to  be  called  by  a  term 
of  reproach  ;  in  the  times  when  Wm.  Lloyd  Garrison 
was  mobed,  and  churches  were  burned.  I  say  it  was  in 
great  measure  this  trait  which  led  him  to  break  loose 
from  all  his  political  affiliations,  and  to  claim  for  himself 
the  appellation  of  the  unpopular  abolitionist.  He  was 
not  only  honest  in  his  business  relations,  but  he  had  in  a 
marked  degree  that  higher  type  of  honesty  which  caused 
him  to  be  faithful  in  the  expression  of  his  convictions, 
and  to  follow  them  to  their  logical  result.  He  desired 
not  the  rewards  of  political  ambition.  The  only  politi 
cal  position  he  ever  held  was  that  of  representative  in  the 
Legislature,  which  he  filled  one  year  at  the  request  of  his 
townsmen,  with  much  credit. 

No  man  was  ever  more  free  from  the  trammels  of  dog 
mas,  creeds  and  traditions,  but  his  religious  faith  was 
strong.  He  had  a  firm  beliet  in  an  overruling  Providence, 
the  life  hereafter,  and  that  death  was  but  an  entrance  to 
a  higher  state  of  existence,  as  that  expressive  poem, "The 
Covered  Bridge,"  will  readily  bring  to  mind.  His  re 
ligion,  however,  was  not  of  the  boisterous  kind.  It  con 
sisted  in  doing  to  others  as  he  would  have  others  do  to 
him,  rather  than  the  observance  of  forms  and  ceremonies, 
and  the  utterances  of  emotion. 

In  one  department,  that  of  poetry,  he  had  obtained  a 
distinguished  reputation,  a  lot  which  seldom  happens  to 
travelers  in  the  rugged  and  difficult  paths  of  the  legal 
profession.  Poetry  he  loved.  The  muses  answered  kindlv 
to  his  call,  and  it  was  a  source  of  just  satisfaction  to  him 
that  he  had  written  some  things  which  would  live  after 
him.  ''The  Sign  of  Distress,"  ''The  Covered  Bridge." 
"The  Empty  Sleeve,"  and  many  others  of  his  productions 
and  poems  will  not  soon  die." 

Judge  Peters  bore  testimony  to  his  excellent  qualities 
in  the  following  graceful  response  : 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  liar : — I  am  happy  that  it. falls  to 
myself  as  a  member  of  this  Court,  to  express  a  cordial 


V 


BIOGRAPHY 


concurrence  in  the  sentiments  contained  in  your  resolu 
tions,  and  in  the  warm  and  glowing  tribute  of  respect 
paid  to  the  deceased  by  your  committee,  in  presenting 
them. 

I  first  knew  the  deceased  when  I  came  to  the  Bar  of 
this  county,  about  forty  years  ago.  I  very  well  remem 
ber  his  encouraging  expressions  to  me  when  I  was  en 
gaged  in  trying  the  first  case  that  I  ever  tried  in  this  court. 
After  I  had  gained  some  position  at  the  bar,  in  the  trial 
of  causes,  he  often  employed  me  for  his  clients.  I  do  not 
now  recollect  that  we  were  ever  opposing  attorneys  in 
any  litigated  case.  We  were  often  together.  In  our  pro 
fessional  intercommunication  he  wrote  to  me  many  let 
ters — some  of  them  in  verse — of  a  humorous  character, 
containing  flashes  of  wit  and  fun.  Our  relations  led  me 
to  know  him  well. 

Although  he  was  not  lacking  in  any  of  the  intellectual 
qualities  which  would  have  made  him  a  successful  advo 
cate,  still  he  was  disinclined  to  take  upon  his  shoulders 
the  heavy  responsibilities  and  burdens  which  an  advocate 
has  to  bear.  But  he  was  a  most  valuable  associate.  His 
court  business  was  always  perfectly  prepared.  There  was 
great  method  and  completeness  in  his  preparation  of 
causes  for  trial.  His  perceptions  were  very  quick  and 
exact,  and  his  whole  soul  was  engaged  in  any  cause  un 
dertaken  by  him. 

After  all,  professional  life,  evidently,  was  not  entirelv 
in  accord  with  his  predominating  tastes,  and  for  that  rea 
son,  he  has  established  before  the  world  more  position 
and  reputation  out  of,  than  in  the  courts. 

He  was  extensively  known  and  appreciated  as  a  man. 

He  was  invariably  courteous  and  cordial.  It  was  al 
ways  pleasant  to  meet  him.  His  nature  was  kindlv  and 
sympathetic  and  sensitive.  This  led  him  to  be,  some 
times,  easily  elated  or  depressed.  Still  he  had  great  firm 
ness  of  purpose  and  serious  and  settled  convictions,  al 
though  never  obtruded  upon  anybody  or  offensively  ex 
pressed.  He  had  no  toleration  for  the  shows  or  shams  of 
society,  either  in  the  social  or  the  moral  world.  We  all  very 
wcll  remember  how  well  he  loved  his  countrv  during  the 


BIOGRAPHY. 


late  war  ;  how  absorbed  he  was  in  its  exciting  scenes  ; 
what  an  enthusiast  he  was  about  the  questions  regarded 
by  him  as  affecting  human  freedom  !  He  found  in  those 
stirring  events  an  inspiration  for  that  peculiar  literary  ef 
fort  for  which  he  possessed  a  gift. 

His  poetical  productions  will  be  the  principal  monu 
ment  to  his  fame  and  memory.  I  frequently  urged  him  to 
collect  and  publish  them  while  he  lived.  I  was  satisfied 
that  they  would  meet  with  marked  public  favor,  which 
would  have  been  a  great  gratification  to  him.  But  noth 
ing  would  have  more  deeply  affected  him  in  his  lifetime, 
than  an  anticipation  and  belief — if  such  a  thing  could  have 
been — that  this  grateful  and  tender  tribute  was  in  store 
for  his  memory  from  this  bar.  Mv  personal  sentiment 
and  feeling  is,  that  observances  like  this  should  not  pass 
into  neglect  or  out  of  our  esteem.  They  may  serve  to 
stimulate  a  motive  for  honorable  conduct  at  the  bar. 
There  can  be  no  better  memorial  offered  for  honorable 
professional  life  than  a  tribute  from  the  fraternity  placed 
upon  the  records  of  the  courts  where  honorable  charac 
ter  has  been  attained  in  the  practice  of  the  law. 

The  name  and  character  of  our  lamented  brother  will 
long  be  fresh  within  our  memories.  He  will  long  be  re 
membered  by  us  for  his  cordial,  personal  greetings  ;  his 
pleasant  anecdotes  and  playful  remarks  ;  his  activities  and 
sympathies  in  all  the  events  that  for  many  years  passed 
about  us  ;  his  gifts  in  poetical  effusions  that  hit  off  our 
local  habits,  costumes  and  character  ;  his  own  good  char 
acter  as  a  man,  and  his  unsullied  reputation  as  a  prac 
titioner  at  this  bar. 

It  was  sad  to  see  him  in  the  prime  of  manhood  pass 
away.  His  death  has  cast  a  gloom  and  shadow  upon  our 
path.  It  is  another  reminder  that  life  is  but  "a  vapor 
that  appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  soon  vanisheth  away." 

But  we  have  the  consolation  that  death  is  the  beginning 
of  immortality.  As  Longfellow  expresses  it — 

"There  is  no  death! 

What  seems  so  in  transition." 


l6  BIOGRAPHY. 


In  compliance  with  your  request  the  resolutions  of  the 
bar  are  ordered  to  be  entered  on  the  records  of  this  Court ; 
and  as  a  further  mark  of  respect  this  Court  will  now  be 
adjourned." 

Mr.  Barker  left  a  widow — the  daughter  of  the  late  Tim 
othy  Chase, Esq.,  of  Belfast, Me. — and  a  son  and  a  daugh 
ter.  As  a  poet  he  will  live.  There  are  many  gems  from 
his  pen  that  cannot  die.  The  touching  references  to  his 
mother,  in  several  of  his  poems,  will  endear  him  to  all 
who  maintain  their  regard  for  the  filial  sentiment, and  they 
are  legion. 

His  townsmen  manifested  their  regard  for  his  abilities 
by  electing  him  a  Representative  to  the  Legislature  of 
1872.  But,  though  he  was  a  useful  member,  and  very 
popular,  yet  this  kind  of  public  life  was  not  to  his  taste, 
and  he  had  no  desire  to  be  returned.  His  modesty  led 
him  to  doubt  his  right  to  any  peculiar  public  regard,  and 
he  was  often  subject  to  surprises.  That  his  poetical  fame 
should  bring  to  him  the  degree  of  A.  M.  from  Bowdoin 
College,  was  as  gratifying  as  it  was  unexpected.  From 
individuals  in  different  parts  of  the  country,  who  had 
been  moved  by  one  or  another  of  his  poems,  he  received 
letters  expressing  deep  obligations  for  the  pleasure  he  had 
afforded  them.  But  the  surprise,  which  of  all  others, 
most  affected  him,  was  a  poetical  greeting  he  received 
from  one  who  had  been  a  soldier  in  the  war  of  the  Re 
bellion,  of  whom  he  then  had  never  heard,  but  whom 
he  afterwards  met  and  thanked  for  his  charming  compli 
ment. 

\ 


yl/fr  F/^77  COURTSHIP. 


V. 


MY   FIRST  COURTSHIP. 


Who  seeks  to  drown  the  heart's  first  love. 

Will  find  it  harder,  even, 
Than  that  old  task,  in  Palestine, 

To  stone  the  truth  from  Stephen. 

Through  all  the  pestering  scenes  of  life 
Each  brother  has  his  special  need  ; 

Some  need  religion — some  a  wife — 
A  dog, — or  a  velocipede — 

And  many  on  this  earthly  ball 

To  keep  them  straight,  should  have  them  all. 


My  Muse  knows  no  partiality, 
But  sends  her  notes,  so  thrilling, 

For  satin,  broadcloth  and  for  silk, 
And  also  for  blue  drilling. 


20  POEMS    BY    DAVJD    BARKER. 


I  have  seen  flirting  oft  afar 

In  Tuileries  and  Boulevard  : 
I  have  seen  courting  going  on 

Up  in  the  Scottish  highlands, 
In  Cekic  hut  and  Switzer's  cot. 

And  in  the  sea-girt  islands  ; 
But  know  not  what  true  love  may  be 

When  dosed  and  dabbled  out  among 

The  numerous  wives  of  Brigham  Young, 
Or  peddled  out  to  two  or  three. 

1  cannot  talk  to  you  in  words 
Which  you  can  fully  understand, 

Who,  born  with  gold  spoons  'tween  the  lips. 
Or  some  proud  scepter  in  the  hand, 

Have  never  felt  Fate's  grabs  and  grips  ; 
But  you  who,  born  as  I  was  born, 

In  modern  or  in  earlier  times, 

With  sand  and  hay-seed  in  your  hair, 
And  grew,  like  Topsy,  without  care — 

I  sing  to  you  in  these  odd  rhymes. 

When,  for  the  first  time  in  your  life 
You  dream  of  those  strange  words,  a  wife, 
And  from  your  mother's  cupboard  go, 
And  the  first  time  in  earnest  throw 
In  kind  of  bashful,  leisure  haste, 


% 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


21 


Your  green  arm  'round  a  green  girl's  waist. 

If,  like  the  mariner,  when  tossed 

On  wave,  with  chart  and  compass  lost, 

Who  trusts  his  helm,  when  tempest  driven. 

To  the  old  dipper  star  in  heaven. 

She,  in  her  new  and  girlish  bliss. 

Will  trust  your  first,  raw  country  kiss, 

Then  look  as  happy  's  though  she  knew 

She'd  got  one  hard  week's  washing  through, - 

And  if  it  gives  your  nerves  a  twist, 

And  sends  a  prickling  through  the  wrist. 

Much  like  a  tunk  upon  the  point. 

Or  apex  of  youV  elbow  joint. 

Brings  from  your  stomach  long-drawn  sighs. 

And  pumps  up  water  through  the  eyes. 

Then  bet  that  you  are  both  in  love. 

And  that  the  match  was  made  above, 

That  you  and  she,  through  smiles  and  tears. 

Will  live  and  love  through  life's  long  years, - 

JShe  turning  with  her  wealth  of  soul. 

As  turns  the  needle  to  the  pole. 

And  clinging  through  your  rise  and  fall. 

As  clings  the  ivy  to  the  wall, — 

Unless  some  fancy,  curl-haired  fop 

Wades  in  and  breaks  love's  crockery  up — 

That  thing  was  done,  as  you  shall  see. 

Betwixt  Almira  Grant  and  me. 


5^ 


\ 


V 


32  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Yes,  I  have  loved  like  other  folks 

Who've  been  to  institutions  : 
Though  love,  like  whiskey,  different  works 

On  different  constitutions. 

A  man  may  blindly  love  for  years 
Without  his  neighbors  knowing  it, 

As  one  may  own  the  rarest  gem 
And  not  be  always  showing  it. 

'Twas  at  a  country  paring  bee 

I  met  the  fair  Almira. — 
I  reckon  from  that  blessed  day 

As  Arabs  from  Hegira. 

I  waited  on  her  home  that  night. 

And  spent  the  coming  day  with  her. 

And  fixed  my  mouth  a  thousand  times 
To  ask  if  I  might  stay  with  her. 

Upon  my  chair  I  played  old  reels 
By  drumming  with  my  fingers. 

And  felt,  no  doubt,  as  darkness  feels 
Which  round  the  daylight  lingers. 

•?         r~>  O 

We  both  were  verdant  as  the  blades 

Of  grass  in  summer  weather  ; 
Hut  then  methought  that  we  were  made 

To  ripen  oft"  together. 


\ 


MY   FIRST   COURTSHIP.  23 

Some  bards  would  make  her  free  from  sin, 

And  say  that  angels  chased  her, 
To  feast  their  eyes  upon  her  skin, 

Which  shamed  pure  alabaster, 

And  paint  her  graceful,  swan-like  neck, 

Her  flowing  auburn  tresses, 
Her  Chinese  feet,  and  arching  back, 

Her  Aidenn-born  caresses, 

Her  laughing  eyes  and  sunny  cheek, 

Her  breath  so  pure  and  balmy, 
Her  pearly  teeth,  erect  and  trained 

Like  soldiers  for  the  army. 

In  building  roads  or  telling  yarns 

I'm  death  against  this  crooking, — 
I  only  say  that  she  was  more 

Than  decently  good  looking. 

She  claimed  no  blood  from  royal  fools — 

Her  father  was  a  yeoman, 
Who  owned  his  farm  and  farming  tools, — 

Her  mother  was  a  woman. 

One  thing  can  truthfully  be  said, 
Almira  would  not  crawl  from  bed 

And  sit  two  hours  a  yawning  ; 
She  seldom  slopped  and  never  sloshed, 


24  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Her  back  hair  combed  and  face  she  washed, 
And  then  the  darling  girl,  beside, 
Would  always  have  her  shoe-strings  tied 
The  first  thing  in  the  morning. 


Whene'er  she  stood,  Almira  looked 

Straight  as  a  gun  from  end  to  end  ; 
She  was  not  twisted,  warped  nor  crook'd 

By  what  they  call  the  Grecian  bend. 
My  neighbor's  girl — Placenta  Ladd — 
That  Grecian  bend — she  had  it  bad. 
She  caught  it  down  at  Saratogue 
From  one  who  had  a  foreign  brosue. 


In  gazing  on  some  lovely  form, 

Right  from  the  hand  of  Nature  warm. 

Although  your  love  be  sizzling  hot. 

The  fear  of  fist  or  pistol  shot 

From  lover,  father,  or  from  brother. 

Or  swinging  broomstick  from  the  mother. 

May  silence  you  from  winking 
Too  often  at  the  luscious  dear, 
But,  thank  the  Lord,  one  thing  is  clear  : — 
Our  courts  have  not  decided  yet 
A  love-sick  fellow  cannot  sit 

Stock  still  and  keep  a  thinking. 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


One  finds  himself  a  monstrous  dunce 
Who  tries  to  court  two  girls  at  once  ; 

I  tried  it  many  a  year  ago 

With  Florence  Jane  Matilda  Rowe. 
And  also  Patience  Plummer. 


In  those  old  times  if  we  should  court 
Two  girls  of  Jones'  or  Hilliard's. 

Who  weighed  one  hundred  sixty  pounds 
Each,  bv  her  father's  steelyards. 


One  thing  is  sure  as  time  and  tide, 
That  we  were  safe  in  betting, 

'Twas  solid  girl  and  nothing  else 
That  you  and  I  were  getting. 

But  now  the  flame  you're  "fluking"  with, 
Perhaps  is  mostly  "boughten," 

Made  up  in  part  of  rubber  goods. 
And  part  of  cork  and  cotton. 

Those  peeping  mole-hills  'neath  her  chin. 

To  craze  some  frail  beholder. 
Perhaps  are  gutta  percha  balls 

A-peddling  Jew  has  sold  her. 


26  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

And  ten  to  one,  the  bridal  night 
May  prove  your  festive  charmer 

Has  nought  but  artificial  legs,  — 
Those  patent  legs  by  Palmer. 

And  she,  whom  paste  has  made  as  fair 
As  Whittier's  Maud  Muller, 

May  prove  by  touch  of  Castile  soap 
Quite  of  a  different  color. 

The  girls  we  picked  in  days  of  yore, 
Before  we  used  to  choose  'em, 

We  "peeped"  to  notice  if  they  wore 
Crash  towels  in  the  bosom. 

I  care  not  what  another  says, — 
As  woman  rigs  up  now-a-days, 

It  muddles  up  your  head 
To  know  which  part  to  call  your  wife 
The  real  partner  of  your  life — 
The  part  that  she  takes  off  at  night, 
By  gas,  or  lamp,  or  candle  light, 

Or  the  part  that  goes  to  bed. 

What  shall  be  done,  cries  every  one, 
From  priest  to  the  wood-sawyer — 

I  give  advice,  not  as  a  saint, 
But  as  an  honest  lawyer  : — 


V 


MY    FIRST    COURTSI1I1'.  27 


Have  faith  that  all  is  genuine  ; 

But  ere  the  anxious  lover 
Invests  his  all  in  fancy  stocks, 

He'd  better  look  them  over. 

Some  things  the  old  folks  seemed  to  prize 

Above  her  being  fair  : — 
Her  mother  told  me  that  her  girl 

Was  rugged  as  a  bear. 

And  then  the  old  man  bragged  that  she 
Was  built  just  like  her  mother; 

Was  just  as  limber  as  an  eel, 
And  also  tough  as  leather. 

lie  bragged  that  she  was  hard  as  horn. 

And  she  could  stand  the  hardest  knocks, 
And  never  yet  had  lost  a  meal 
lint  once,  when  she  and  Huldah  Neil 
Took  cold  one  night  in  husking  corn — 

That  fall  they  had  the  chicken-pox. 

When  racked  by  pain  and  bowed  by  care, 

Like  most  of  us  at  present, 
I  think  each  stricken  heart  should  feel 
That  utough  and  rugged  as  a  bear," 
And  "just  as  limber  as  an  eel," 

Are  phrases  rather  pleasant. 


38  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

A  healthy  soul  we  all  should  prize. 

But  then  'tis  doubtful  whether 
You  well  can  run  a  rugged  soul 

And  feeble  form  together. 

If  soul  or  body  gets  the  pole. 

Each  makes  bad  time  forever. 
The  same  as  Bonner's  horse  of  fame — 
I  think  that  Dexter  is  his  name  — 
The  same  perchance,  or  even  worse. 
If  geared,  when  trotting  on  the  course. 

Beside  a  yearling  heifer. 

Our  chance  for  courting  was  not  big, 

Me  and  my  fair  Almira, 
Upon  that  night  I  reckon  from 

As  Arabs  from  Hegira. 

One  side  the  room  the  old  folks  slept — 
Her  father  and  her  mother — 

The  swifts,  wheel,  loom,  and  warping-bars 
Were  standing  in  the  other. 

The  tom-cat  and  a  cosset  lamb 

Were  in  one  corner  lying. 
While  o'er  our  heads  the  pumpkin  hung 

My  darling  had  been  drying. 
\S 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  29 


Above  the  belching  back-logs,  lain-. 

The  pigs'  and  turkey  victual 
Was  sweating  on  the  iron  crane 

Within  a  five-pail  kettle. 

The  cross-cut  saw,  which  never  run 
Except  through  stolen  timber, 

Stood  grinning  with  its  blunted  teeth. 
Until  its  back  grew  limber. 

The  linen  wheel,  which  whirred  and  sung 
By  light  from  pitch-knots'  kindle, 

Thrust  out  its  homespun  flaxen  tongue 
From  distaff  to  the  spindle. 

The  sweet'ning-keg  lay  on  the  floor, 
The  "lobbing"  dish  lay  by  it  ;— 

Those  things  they  used  when  callers  came 
To  keep  their  young  ones  quiet. 

'Mid  all  inventions  since  those  years, 

Oh  deem  it  not  surprising, 
That  we  must  use  some  sweet'ning-kegs 

To  keep  our  folks  from  rising. 

A  rundlet,  filled  with  Shubael's  rum, 
Which  made  him  oft  a  noodle, 


«F 


•JO  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Was  horsed  beside  his  tenor  drum, 
On  which,  when  Elder  Hatch  was  there, 
He  played  some  old  John  Bunyan  air ; 
But  when  the  Elder  whirled  his  gig, 
And  Shubael  took  an  extra  swig, 
He  dropped  those  airs  from  spirit  lands. 
And  with  his  little  horn-beam  hands 
First  pitched  into  the  Chorus  Jig, 
Then  closed  on  Yankee  Doodle. 

Three  boys  were  in  a  trundle-bed — 

One  kicking  with  the  colic  ; 
Three  girls,  down  throngh  the  knot-hole,  floor 

Were  peeping,  full  of  frolic. 

The  old  dog,  with  his  glaring  eyes. 

Lay  on  the  hearth-stone  near  us, 
As  if  to  watch  my  girl  and  me 

Like  the  fabled  dog.  Cerberus. 

Their  library,  on  the  rnantle-piece. 

Was  of  a  rare  selection — 
They  had  all  of  the  standard  works, 

And  but  one  work  of  fiction  : 

The  Bible,  Bunyan,  Watts'  Hymns, 
Which  taught  both  me  and  you  so — 

The  reader,  speller,  grammar-book, 
Arithmetic  and  Crusoe. 


MY   FIRST    COURTSHIP.  31 


Grant  said  he  always  lived  by  plan, 

For,  on  one  shelf  appointed, 
There  smoked  the  sulphur  in  the  pan 

From  which  the  children  ointed. 

One  picture,  on  the  moss-chinked  wall. 

She  had  of  Susan  Tainter, 
Would  knock  old  Michael  Angelo. 

Or  any  modern  painter. 

It  looked  some  like  a  frightened  bull 

Hitched  to  a  porter  wagon  : 
She  said  that  Susan  painted  it 

For  Michael  and  the  Dragon  ! 

The  old  flint  gun — I  see  it  still- 
That  queen's-arm  used  at  Bunker's  hill 

By  her  great-grandsir  Lowder, 
Lay  calmly  in  the  hooks  at  rest. 
But  kept  within  its  iron  breast 

One  charge  of  shot  and  powder. 

Those  day?  I  never  can  forget, 

Till  death  my  heart-strings  sever— 

Your  modern  style  of  etiquette 
Was  then  in  fashion,  never  ! 


32  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 

If  mothers  wished  you  not  to  stop 
To  court  a  blushing  daughter, 

'Twas  one  blow  with  the  handle  mop, 
Or  else  some  boiling  water  ! 

Ye  need  na  piles  of  worldly  gear. 
Nor  large  amount  of  college  lear, 
By  kintra  wit  and  judgment  clear. 

'Twill  quick  be  found 
If  the  auld  mither  of  the  dear 

Don't  want  ye  round. 

In  writing  thymes,  oh,  what  a  band 
Aft  throng  me  frae  the  ither  land, 
And  a'  in  circling  hurdles  stand. 

Though  aft  unsee'n — 
That  was  Rob  Burns'  spirit  hand 

On  my  machine. 

Her  mother,  ere  she  went  to  bed — 

God  bless  the  dear,  old  homespun  saint — 
The  round,  pine  kitchen  table  spread 
With  honey  reeking  from  the  bees, 
W7ith  nut-cakes  and  some  pigs'-foot  cheese 

In  case  the  girl  or  I  was  faint. 
I  see  that  table  standing  there — 
With  top  turned  up  it  made  a  chair — 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  33 


To  give  us  one  warm  luncheon  then, 
(A  theme  fit  for  a  seraph's  pen) 
Brought  baked  beans  from  the  earthen  pot. 
An  Indian  loaf  all  piping  hot, 

Whose  worth  the  world  has  proven, 
Whose  inspirations  oft  I  feel, 
All  reddening  for  the  morning  meal 

Inside  the  old  mud  oven. 

Then  from  the  scriptures  read  a  psalm. 

And  prayed  to  Israel's  God  above 
To  keep  their  darling  girl  from  harm, 

And  shield  her  in  His  arms  of  love. 

Oh,  had  that  mother's  prayer  been  heard. 

No  fitful  touch  from  memory's  breeze. 
Some  string  upon  my  harp  had  stirred 

To  bellow  out  such  strains  as  these. 

I,  as  the  son-in-law  of  Grant. 

Had  never  caught  the  crazy  whim 
To  spend  my  hours  in  idle  rant 

And  write  these  coming  lines  on  him. 

It  may  seem  wrong — this  bundling  up — 
This  mixing  in  the  self-same  cup 
Life's  awful  facts  with  fiction  ; 


V 

-.  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


It  makes  a  mixture  and  a  twist, 

Like  playing  one  short  game  of  whist 

'Tween  prayer  and  benediction. 
But  then,  what  can  a  fellow  do 
When  love  has  loosened  many  a  screw, 
And  warped  and  wrenched,  as  may  be  seen, 
The  gearing  of  his  song-machine? 
I'll  do  but  this — to  gain  your  pelf 
I'll  let  the  old  gear  run  itself. 

LINES  ox  SHUBAEL,  THE  FATHER  OF  MY  INTENDED. 

Old  Shubael  Grant  then  bragged  an  hour 

Of  every  thing  on  earth  he  knew, 

And  all  he  ever  dreamed  of,  too  ; 

How  he  had  licked  big  Abel  Tower, 

And  knocked  an  eye  and  wisdom  tooth 

Square  down  the  throat  of  Orlan  Booth  ; 
How  on  one  leg  he  used  to  stand 

And  box  an  hour  with  Rufus  Cam  ; 
And  with  an  axe  and  flask  in  hand 

Had  run  the  ridge-pole  of  a  barn  ; 
And  how  he  always  liked  the  fun 

Of  knocking  hats  with  long-leg  Banks ; 
And  how  they  danced  from  sun  to  sun 

At  the  last  muster  on  the  planks  ; 
How,  after  dark,  his  old  blind  horse, 

With  heaves  and  lame  in  every  foot, 


V 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  35 

He  linked  on  old  Jehiel  Morse, 

And  got  a  shoat  and  drink  to  boot ; 
How,  when  they  raised  the  Libb}'  mill, 
He  "rasseled"  twice  with  Albert  Hill, 
And  what  "a  most  Jehovah  flip" 
He  got  from  Albert's  swinging  trip  ; 
But  then  for  business,  not  for  fun, 
He  tried  the  old  half-buttock  on  ; 
When  quick  from  science,  not  from  strength, 
He  stretched  old  Albert  twice  his  length  ; 
How  once  a  number  twelve  he  wore, 

Although  his  feet  were  small  as  mine, 
To  make  them  think  'twas  neighbor  Moore 

Who  plundered  cedar  o'er  the  line; 
With  iron  heels  and  brads  before, 
The  tracks  resembled  neighbor  Moore. 
And  how  he  marketed  his  hay, 

Not  when  the  skies  were  bright  and  warm, 
But  always  on  a  lowcry  day, 

And  often  through  a  driving  storm  ; 
That  half  a  ton,  less  tare  and  tret, 
Was  just  twelve  hundred  when  'twas  wet ; 
And  what  a  joke  he  played  on  Howes — 

You  know  that  Howes,  that  old  blind  Lem, 
He  milked  two  teats  of  both  his  cows 

One  season  when  he  pastured  them  ; 
How  good  the  Lord  had  been  to  him, 

For  he  had  always  had  through  life 


36  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

A  blessed,  rousing  appetite, 

A  rugged  and  a  praying  wife^ 
A  wife  who  never  had  been  slim, 

No  "rheumatiz"  or  dizzy  spell ; 
Their  victuals  always  sat  so  well 

That  they  could  eat,  by  day  or  night, 

Most  any  thing  that  they  could  bite  ; 
And  how  he  wiggled  Ephraim  Kidd, 

By  making  talk  as  fine  as  silk, 
For,  many  a  year  ago,  somehow, 
He  learned  one  lesson  from  his  cow  ; 
She  always  kept  her  garget  hid 

Until  she  showed  it  in  her  milk. 
Though  'gainst  the  rules  of  fighting  rings. 

He  said  he  always  felt 
'Twas  well,  sometimes,  to  vary  things, 

And  strike  below  the  belt ; 
And  how,  at  Glover's  nine-pin  hall, 

He  found  one  day  in  bowling, 
There  was  as  much  in  keeping  slate  himself, 

Or  more,  than  there  was  in  rolling. 

How  in  the  play,  whate'er  the  name, 

One  sacred  rule  he  makes, 
To  end  disputes  about  the  game 

He  always  grabs  the  stakes. 

Though  he  had  strongest  Bible  faith, 
One  thing  he  shouldn't  try  on — 


V 

^ 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  37 


He  ne'er  should  try  that  Bible  game 
To  camp  down  with  the  lion  : 

For  somehow  he  had  always  felt, 
Before  they  got  through  kissing, 

Or  got  through  with  the  play  of  lamb. 
The  lamb  would  come  up  missing  ; 

And  how  he  always  took  his  swigs 
In  the  old  brown  earthen  cup  ; 

For  one,  he  always  meant  to  stick 
Right  square  to  his  bringing  up  ; 

And  how  it  made  him  "cussed  riled" 

To  have  it  hinged  by  others, 
Although  his  name  was  Shubael  Grant. 

His  father's  name  was  .Leathers  ; 

And  how  at  Pullen's  piling  bee 

He  whacked  and  whelted  Simon  Spear, 
And  warmed  the  wax  within  his  ear,  — 

Yes,  browsed  him  like  a  Saxon 
For  speaking  disrespectfully 

Of  God  and  Andrew  Jackson. 

Then  sipped,  and  told  his  girl  and  me, 

How  many  a  year  ago  that  he 

Once  staid  one  night  with  Hulda  Murch, 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


The  very  day  she  joined  the  church 
And  worked  for  Captain  Brown, 

And  how  she  had  the  smoothest  skin 
Of  any  girl  in  town. 

And  how  there  was  no  woman  born. 
Not  e'en  the  wife  of  Elder  Ayer, 

Could  hold  a  candle-stick  to  his 
In  exhortation  or  in  prayer. 

How  many  a  kicking  colt  he'd  broke  ; 
How  many  a  pair  and  many  a  yoke 

Of  kicking,  hooking,  sulky  steers  ; 
Then  took  some  worm-wood  for  his  cough, 
Then  pulled  his  shoes  and  stockings  off, 

And  cut  his  toe  nails  with  the  shears  ; 
Then  told  me  that  he  always  waked 

From  any  little  noise  or  sound  ; 
He  wanted  me  to  feel  at  home, 

But  hoped  I  wouldn't  "larrup  'round  ;" 
Then  put  on  airs  and,  most  polite, 
He  bade  the  girl  and  me  good  night. 


Grant  could  not  speak  a  word  of  Greek, 
And  yet,  from  what  I've  heard  them  say, 
He'd  steal  more  hoop-poles  in  a  day 


MY   FIRST    COURTSHIP.  39 

Than  Reverend  Doctor  Carlos  Bawn, 

Or  learned  Professor  Enoch  Swan 
Could  get  by  cutting  all  the  week. 
Before  we  close  earth's  doubtful  strife, 
Or  end  this  splendid  fuss  of  life, — 
When  fame  and  wealth  and  health  have  fled, 
And  friends  to  lean  upon  are  dead, — 
Yes,  when  we're  growing  old  and  poor, 
And  hear  the  wolf  around  our  door, 
But  hoop-poles  in  the  market  sell, 

It  may  be  well — plain  truth  to  speak — 
If  honestly,  it  may  be  well 

To  mix  some  hoop-poles  with  our  Greek. 

But  after  all,  'twixt  you  and  me, 

'Tis  hard  to  tell  you  which  is 
The  toughest  load  for  mortals  here, 
The  pinching  load  of  poverty 

Or  galling  load  of  riches. 

For  I  have  ever  dreamed  this  dream, 
A  hand,  veiled  out  from  human  sight, 

To  meet  our  false  weights  on  the  beam, 
Will  fix  the  passive  scales  aright. 

And  each  will  find,  throughout  the  strife, 

Though  fed  from  lean  or  fat  ox, 
Upon  this  battle-field  of  life, 

Bull  Run  and  Appomattox. 


40  HOEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Have  you  ever  yet  felt  as  once  I  have  felt, 

What  a  world's  wealth  and  glory  are  worth  ? 
With  an  earthquake  beneath,  when  around  me  they  knelt, 
With  my  faith  that  was  clear  in  my  youth  blotted  out 
By  a  touch  from  the  hand  of  the  demon  of  Doubt, 
When  from  pale,  mortal  lips  there  ascended  the  cry 
To  a  Power,  dwelling  up,  as  they  said,  in  the  sky ; 
When  the  summits  were  ripped  from  the  mountains  afar, 
With  the  flames  shooting  out  from  their  seams  like  a  star, 
And   strange  mutterings  came  from  the  upheaving  dell, 
Like  the  rumblings  that  come  from  the  bowels  of  hell, 
And  when,  full  on  the  ear,  fell  the  sickening  sound, 
And  we  felt,  as  we  hugged,  like  a  child,  to  the  ground, 

The  uplift  and  the  swing  of  the  earth  ? 
Since  then  I  have  dreamed,  though  I  cannot  tell  why, 
Of  a  Power  in  the  spheres  that  is  greater  than  I. 

The  fruits  that  grow  from  deeds  of  ill. 
Somehow,  have  ever  brought  to  mind 

That  old  and  crazy  cog-wheel  mill 
Where  old  John  Buzzell  used  to  grind. 

Each  for  his  grist  must  take  his  turn, 
Each  form  that  shields  a  deathless  soul. 

And  one  tough  lesson  he  must  learn, 

That  though  he  curse,  or  though  he  pray. 

While  Justice  grinds  he  takes  his  pay 
To  the  last  kernel  of  the  toll. 


V 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


Grant  was  an  awful  Democrat ; 

To  prove  his  hate  of  Whigs,  'tis  said 
He  voted  for  old  Jackson  once, 

Long  after  that  old  saint  was  dead. 


He  was  a  rigid  Baptist,  too  ; 

One  day  he  cursed  old  Elder  Pease. 
The  leader  of  the  bolting  crew, 

For  preaching  'gainst  Divine  decrees. 


Grant  was  an  office-seeker — some — 

He  spared  no  pains,  and  spared  no  plan 

One  year  he  paid  a  pint  of  rum 
To  be  elected  tythingman. 


He  stood  against  Elkanah  Brown, 
And,  though  the  office  didn't  pay, 

He  swore  he'd  stop  their  strolling  'round 
Upon  the  holy  Sabbath  day. 


And  then  he  struck  for  power  and  place  ; 

Ah  !  how  his  cousins  rent  the  air 
The  time  he  run  with  Uncle  Mace, 

And  beat  him  as  highway  surveyor. 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


This  second  office  paid  him  best ; 

He  worked  the  taxes  in  his  bills 
Upon  a  fell-piece  that  he  cleared  ; 
You  knew  that  "cut-down"  little  west 

And  little  east  of  Henry  Hill's. 

Sometimes  I  fear  that,  now-a-days, 

Our  men  of  place  have  found  the  tracks 

Into  a  cut-down,  like  where  Grant 
Worked  out  his  neighbors'  highway  tax. 

Old  Shubael  said  he  always  prized 
The  privilege  of  being  found 
Upon  the  blessed,  holy  ground 

Where  converts  went  to  be  baptized. 

Old  Shubael  was  like  one  in  ten, 
One  of  your  handy  kind  of  men  ; 
He  very  often  stood  or  sat 
And  held  the  convert's  coat  and  hat, 
And  said  that  he  could  always  tell 
When  pious  folks  were  feeling  well ; 
Then  was  a  bully  time,  he  said, 
To  show  his  spavined  quadruped. 
He  said,  in  talking  up  a  horse, 

No  matter  if  he  swapped  or  sold  him, 
The  man  of  prayer  and  strongest  faith 

Was  apt  to  suck  down  what  he  told  him. 


\ 


^ 

MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  43 


Some  traits  I  liked  of  Shubael  Grant's, 
He  played  well  on  his  drum  and  fife, 

And  though  he  wore  blue  drilling  pants. 
Was  true  and  clever  to  his  wife. 

And,  though  he  had  a  rattle  head, 
At  things  Divine  he  wouldn't  scoff, 

And  though  he  went  half  choked,  'tis  said 
He  never  took  his  well-crank  off*. 

He  never  changed  nor  flopped  about, 
And  now,  wherever  Grant  may  be, 

In  any  world,  I  have  no  doubt, 
He  writes  God  with  a  little  g ; 

And  is,  as  he  was  here  in  Maine. 

Dead  set  against  each  liquor  law — 
"Hain't  got  no  nigger  on  the  brain,", 

And  always  takes  his  whiskey  raw. 

If  in  the  roaring  pit  beneath, 
He'll  fight  in  lava  to  the  knees 

Each  sulphurous  imp  who  dares  to  breathe 
One  word  against  Divine  decrees! 

That  blessed  wheat,  mixed  in  with  tares, 
The  pious  mother's  humble  prayers, 


% 


44 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


And  love  you  harbor  for  her  daughter, 
You  know  will  often  make  you  stand 
More  lies  and  brags  and  drunks  and  cheats 

From  the  old  father  than  you  ought  to. 
And  so,  through  prayers  and  rum  and  all. 
I  toughed  it  out  at  Grant's  that  Fall. 

When  Grant  retired,  so  nearly  nude. 

I  felt  upon  my  cheek  a  tear — 
A  blessed  tear  of  gratitude  ; 

It  was  not  that  the  coast  was  clear. 
But  ah,  I  felt  'twas  plain  to  see 
That  Shubael  Grant  had  faith  in  me. 
He  knew  I  was  not  shilling  'round. 

Like  Rufus  York,  that  long-haired  curse, 
Who  came  that  way  and  mended  clocks. 

And  fooled  and  ruined  Mary  Burse. 
Poor  Mary,  and  her  mother,  too. 

One  night  to  Crowell's  meadow  came — 
Poor  Widow  Burse  to  drown  her  grief, 

o 

And  Mary  Burse  to  drown  her  shame.    ' 
W'hen  Mary  and  the  Widow  Burse 

You  know,  within  that  brook  were  found. 
And  the  crazed  people  thundered  in 

From  half  a  dozen  miles  around, 
How  some  grieved  folks  would  stand  and  cry, 

While  gazing  on  their  dripping  locks, 
And  some  pile  curses  mountain  high 


\ 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  45 

Upon  the  wretch  who  mended  clocks. 
I  love  to  hear  a  people  pray 

Then  love  to  hear  that  people  curse, 
If  they  will  curse,  as  on  that  day, 

While  standing  'round  poor  Mary  Burse. 
But  those  my  heart  cannot  approve, 

Whose  pulses  throb  but  one  desire, 
Whose  eyes  with  measured  winks  will  move, 
And  have  the  same  look  when  they  love 

As  when  a  building  is  on  fire. 

But  what  has  this  poetic  rant 
To  do  with  courting  'Mira  Grant? 
I  said  that  Shubael  Grant  believed — 
And  Shubael  Grant  was  not  deceived — 
That  I  had  come  from  mother's  bound 

For  good  and  not  for  evil, 
For  in  five  minutes  Shubael  Grant 
Turned  over  once  and  took  a  cant 
Upon  sleep's  sloping  plane,  it  seems, 
Which  sluiced  him  to  the  land  of  dreams 

While  snoring  most  uncivil, 
Then  Shubael's  rest  seemed  sweet  and  deep, 
Much  like  some  certain  lawyer's  sleep  ; 
For,  though  the  bed  is  scrimped  or  wide, 
Some  lawyers  lie  on  either  side. 
There's  nothing  for  the  realms  of  rhyme 

In  future  can  occur, 


46  POEMS    BY   DAVID    BARKER. 

To  make  me  feel  as,  on  that  time, 
I  sidled  up  to  her, 

I  told  my  feelings  square,  if  brusk, 
My  talk  seemed  to  amaze  her  ; 

Her  heart  beat  so  it  broke  her  busk, 
Carved  with  her  father's  razor. 

But,  after  I'd  explained  awhile, 
And  got  her  more  enlightened. 

She  seemed  to  act  like  other  girls, 
More  natural  and  less  frightened. 

For  then  she  tied  me  up  a  wreath 
From  flowers  she  had  been  culling, 

The  hollyhock,  and  butter-cup, 
The  sunflower,  pink  and  mullen. 

And  then  she  "sat  and  told  how  mean 
Jane  Whitcomb  cooks  and  washes, 

And  how  the  ring-tailed,  striped  bugs 
Had  eaten  up  their  squashes. 

How  Peavey's  cats  had  lapped  their  cream, 
For  yesterday  she  caught  'em  ; 

And  how  she  drove  the  measles  out, 
And  when  and  where  she  got  'em. 


V 


MY   FIRST    COURTSHIP.  4/ 

About  this  time  I  worked  for  Dole, 

A  boiling  sap  and  burning  coal ; 

Yes,  worked  from  the  first  blush  of  morn, 

With  hands  much  harder  than  a  horn. 

Though  my  young  life  was  cloud  and  storm, 

I  knew  that  there  would  come 
Sometime,  within  life's  Fall,  a  warm 

And  mild  old  Indian  Summer. 
This  was  the  year  that  old  Christopher  Hill, 
Four  bushels  of  wheat  from  the  winnowing-mill 
Lugo-ed  on  his  back  to  his  home  on  the  knoll, 

OO 

Three  miles  from  the  barn  of  one  Joshua  Towle, 

With  never  a  halt  nor  a  rest  nor  a  lag, 

Winning  the  wheat  that  was  tied  in  the  bag. 

Men  were  made  up  with  a  nerve  and  a  will 

In  the  days  when  they  modeled  old  Christopher  Hill. 

Ere  women  with  their  trousers'  legs 

Throughout  the  land  were  going, 
Or  roosters  took  to  laying  eggs, 

Or  pullets  took  to  crowing  ; 
Ere  hen-pecked  husbands,  made  to  mind, 

Would  humbly  tag  their  swift  Camilla 
By  waddling  some  ten  feet  behind 

With  baby,  band-box  and  umbrella. 

When  bridal  oaths  were  sworn  for  life, 
That  sacred  oath  'twixt  her  and  him. 


48  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

When  man,  till  death,  picked  out  his  wife, 
And  not  a  wife  ad  interim, 

These  were  the  days  when  mothers  felt 

No  interest  in  our  party  votes, 
And  pulpits  were  not  wide  enough 

For  the  full  spread  of  petticoats. 

This  was  long  before  Jane  Peaslie 

Had  that  whooping  cough  ; 
Long  before  her  uncle  Cyrus 

Made  that  yoke  and  trough, 
Or  New  England  rum  was  slandered 

By  the  lips  of  Gough  ; 
Long  before  I  fought  my  battle 

'Mid  Plebian  throngs  ; 
Long  before  I  caught  this  rattle 

From  John  Whittier's  songs  : 

"Ho,  fishermen  of  Marblehead, 
Ho,  Lynn  cordwainers,  leave  your  leather, 
And  wear  the  yoke  in  kindness  made, 

And  clank  your  needful  chains  together." 

Now  let  me  stop  and  say  one  verse 
I  think  it  rather  rich  and  mellow, 

I've  written  better,  written  worse, 

Though  this  was  made  by  one  Longfellow ; 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  49 


He  wrote  it  at  his  old  abode — 

f  understand  he  lives  there  still, 
Near  Guppy's,  on  the  old  cross  road, 

A  nearer  cut  to  Bunker's  Hill : 
'•The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 

Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 
But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 

Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night." 
In  singing  of  the  great  man's  climb 

Longfellow's  words  were  plain  and  true  ; 
The  only  doubt  about  his  rhyme 

Is  wether  he  meant  me  or  you. 


Now  back  to  my  Almira  Grant : 

These  tangent  strides  will  prove  my  ruin  ; 
I  wander  oft'  and  scoot  and  rant 

As  Byron  did  in  his  Don  Juan. 
She  told  me  how  Lize.  Leathers  walked, 

Or  how  she  minced  and  wiggled, 
And  tried  to  tell  me  something  else 

But  grabbed  her  nose  and  giggled. 
How  Rose  Matilda  Cole  had  got 

Red  ears  of  corn  at  huskings ; 
How  Grace  Keziah  Hodge  had  knit 

Jake  Hazeltine  some  buskins  ; 
Then,  with  a  mild  and  reverent  air, 

She  told  how  Mary  Eaton 


"7r 

POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Was  just  baptized  by  Elder  Pease, 
And  how  she  spoke  in  meeting ; 

How  all  the  converts  in  the  town, 
"Brought  out"  at  Deacon  Horton's, 

o 

Would  meet  and  tell  experiences 

At  the  big  barn  of  Norton's. 
To  build  the  towering  church  and  spire 

God's  people  were  not  able, 
And  so  to  hear  their  humble  prayer 
The  Lord  would  meet  them  anywhere — 

In  kitchen,  grove  or  stable. 
With  all  the  stains  upon  my  soul, 

Which  years  of  sin  have  brought  me, 
1  loathe  the  female  tongue  that  scoffs 

The  faith  my  mother  taught  me ; 
A  faith  that  tells  to  weary  forms, 

And  hearts  with  sorrow  riven, 
Of  healing  balms  in  Gilead 

And  better  homes  in  heaven. 
(These  last  two  verses  I  have  made, 

So  pious  in  expression. 
Came  from  the  heart,  though  they  may  seem 

Unpardonable  digression.) 
You  knew  that  frog-pond  near  our  house, 

On  the  old  farm  of  mother's? 
'Twas  near  the  present  grassy  road 

Which  leads  west  from  mv  brother's. 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


Some  forty  years  ago  or  so, 

When  there  was  fun  in  playing, 
We  boys  would  meet  and  spatter  there 

Each  evening  after  haying  ; 
With  little  shirts  and  trousers  off, 

We  little  human  cattle 
Would  splash  around  and  duck  our  heads, 

All  eager  for  a  battle. 
I  recollect  (as  plain  as  day) 

One  little  Tommy  Dyer, 
Would  always  wade  in  to  his  knees, 

But  never  wade  in  higher  ; 
But  I,  your  poet,  feeling  brave, 

And  finer  than  a  fiddle, 
Once  waded  in  clear  to  my  chin, 

A  foot  above  my  middle, 
But  making  then  a  slip  or  trip. 

The  fellows  standing  by  me. 
All  had  to  join  and  fish  me  up, 

Then  pump  me  out  and  dry  me. 
So  ever  after  that,  when  one 

Would  wish  to  wade  in,  just  for  fun, 
A  piece  of  bed  cord  we  had  got 

We  tied  around  him  with  a  knot, 
And  held  one  end  when,  in  and  in. 

The  fellow  waded  to  his  chin. 
My  love-sick  brother,  hear  me  through, 
This  sage  advice  I  give  to  you  : 


v  Xi 

52  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BAKKER. 

When  with  some  female  turtle-dove, 
You  come  to  the  frog-pond  of  love, 
Duck  in  and  frolic  as  you  please, 

But  then,  like  Tommy  Dyer, 
1  wouldn't  wade  in  to  the  knees, 
But  this  strong  resolution  keep, 
Wade  in,  perhaps,  some  ankle  deep, 

But  never  wade  in  higher. 


My  Muse  now  takes  another  flop 

This  moment  as  she  passes, 
With  one  remark,  and  simply  this, 
When  courting,  filled  with  rustic  bliss, 

We're  often  like  the  long-legged  boy 
Who  lived  beneath  the  Hermon  hill, 
(I  think  his  hat-band  lives  there  still) 

Who,  in  his  hour  of  awful  joy. 
Could  not,  for  life,  tell  when  to  stop 

The  time  he  lobbed  molasses ; 
When  hogshead  burst  outside  the  door 
Which  led  to  big  George  Brackett's  store 
So,  on  one  beauteous  Summer  day, 
He  lobbed  and  lobbed  himself  away. 
Metempsychosis  may  be  true, 

And  in  the  future,  dark  and  dim, 
I  may  take  on  the  poodle  dog, 

Or  e'en  one  of  the  seraphim. 


\ 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  53 


If  self  must  die,  and  change  must  come, 

How  would  my  pulses  thrill  with  joy 
To  know  that  I  could  be  transformed 

Into  that  long-legged  Hermon  boy. 
Devoid  of  friction,  care  and  pain. 

No  aspiration,  nor  a  throb 
Except  to  lie,  while  God  should  reign, 

Around  some  bursting  cask  and  lob. 

Now  let  me  bounce  back  to  that  girl. 

So  fair  to  each  beholder, 
And  skip  awhile  what  she  told  me 

But  tell  vou  what  I  told  her. 


I  told  her  how  that  our  steer  calves. 

We  swapped  with  Ivory  Nutter, 
Were  having  horns  two  inches  long. 

And  getting  fat  as  butter  ; 
How  Chamberlain's  sheep  had  owned  her  lamb — 

A  fact  which  you  and  I  know — 
By  putting  Bose  into  the  pen 

Beside  the  young  Merino  : 
Not  Chamberlain  who,  long  moons  ago, 

Sent  Paugus  with  a  yell  and  bound — 
That  Lovell  pond  or  red-skin  foe. 

Up  to  his  upper  hunting  ground  ; 
Not  lie — one  J.  L.  Chamberlain. 


1'OEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Who  once  was  Governor  of  Maine. 
Whose  name  may  die  in  after  times 
Unless  I  save  him  by  these  rhymes  ; 
Whose  name  you  all  may  soon  forget 
Unless  he  asks  a  pardon  yet, 

He,  with  the  loyal  many. 
For  dealing  out  in  that  red  fight. 

With  sword  and  grape,  and  shot  and  shell. 
On  Little  Round-Top,  through  that  night, 

That  awful,  lurid  dose  ot  hell. 
To  those,  by  man  and  God  accursed, 
Turning  the  tide  of  treason  first. 

Way  down  in  Pennsylvania. 
But  Chamberlain,  whom  you  all  well  know. 
Who  lived  nor' west  of  Alfred  Rowe. 
And  sou'west  of  the  Gilman  hill. 
And  east  of  Eastman's  cider  mill. 
His  girl,  you  know,  they  called  her  Beck — 
(You  know  that  mole  upon  her  neck.) 
She  wears  the  same  knit  garters  still. 
The  bodice,  with  the  skirt  and  frill. 
The  cotton-pads  and  raccoon  fur 
As  when  young  Coburn  courted  her. 
Beck  gave  young  Blaine  the  mitten  once. 
Then  took  up  with  that  perfect  dunce. 
That  long  nose  Roswell  Griffin, 

Who  came  up  from  the  Willard  Bend 
The  dav  that  our  new  barn  was  raised. 


?r 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


And  drank  new  rum  till  nearly  crazed, 
Then  won  a  gill  from  Moses  Shead 
By  standing  longest  on  his  head, 
And  lifted  short-legg'd  Deacon  Deals 
A  dozen  times  at  the  stiff  heels, 

Threw  me  at  the  backs  and  the  arms'-end  : 
But  then  I  tried  a  different  lug 
And  took  him  at  the  old  side-hug, 
And  whopped  and  laid  him  on  his  mug 
In  just  a  half  a  "jiffin." 

In  the  last  settlement  above, 
Whatever  crimes  or  faults  they  prove, 

Whatever  else  old  Shubael  lacks, 
One  thing  his  enemies  will  say, 
He  was  a  good  man  in  his  day 

To  break  and  swingle  flax  ; 
And,  with  two  swigs  of  cherry  rum, 
Played  nice  tunes  on  his  tenor  drum, 
And  this  was  more,  'twixt  me  and  you, 
Than  ever  Deacon  Beals  could  do. 

Rebecca  Chamberlain,  ere  she  wed. 
Had  every  thing  within  her  head  ; 
For  miles  around  she  knew  them  all, 
By  bonnet,  overcoat  or  shawl, 

And  I  was  told  by  Widow  Moore 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


That  Miss  Rebecca  Chamberlain  knew 
The  quantity  and  value,  too, 

Of  every  rag  of  clothes  you  wore. 
I  think  you  knew  poor  Widow  Moore? 

Though  pure  and  holy,  meek  and  mild. 
Like  a  caged  maniac  she  swore, 

The  night  she  lost  her  only  child. 
Sometimes  a  solace  may  be  found 

To  snatch  and  break  the  chastening  rod, 
And  clank  your  galling  chains,  though  bound, 

Square  in  the  face  and  ear  of  God. 

One  day  she  told  me,  and  she  cried, 
That  winter  that  her  husband  died, 

She  tended  her  own  barn, 
And  spun  with  her  poor  widowed  hands 

Five  hundred  skeins  of  yarn. 
Ah  !  woman,  in  your  gorgeous  wealth. 

With  false,  perverted  taste, 
Who  drizzle  out  a  vapid  life 

'Mid  frippery  and  paste  ; 
Come,  I  can  teach  you  many  a  phrase, 

Yes,  teach  you  how  to  speak, 
Not  only  in  my  native  tongue, 

But  Latin,  French  and  Greek  ; 
But  cannot  tell  you  what  this  means  — 

She  tended  her  own  barn, 
And  spun  'with  her  poor  'widowed  hands 

Five  hundred  skeins  of  varn. 


MY    FIKST    COURTSHIP. 


I  told  of  Lot  Brown's  piling-bee. 

The  wrestle  and  the  scuffle. 
The  French  four  and  four-handed  reel, 

The  jig  and  double  shuffle  ; 
And  how  we  played  the  "needle's  eye 

Which  carries  its  tape  so  true, 
It  has  caught  many  a  smiling  lass. 

Now,  lass,  it  has  caught  you." 
I  told  her  how  at  Captain  Ware's 
We  fixed  a  quilt  across  two  chairs 
Which  Lydia  Rich  and  Rachael  Hart 
Had  stood  or  fixed  two  feet  apart, 
And  how  we  got  one  Edward  Fox — 
'Twas  not  your  learn'd  Judge.  Edward  Fox — 
But  he  of  the  long  and  yellow  locks. 
He  of  the  sunburnt,  dog-tail  curls. 
To  set  him  down  between  those  girls, 
When  his  true  lover,  quick,  perhap, 
Would  come  and  sit  upon  his  lap. 
One  fact  was  kept  from  Ed.,  you  know, 
The  yawning,  watery  tub  below. 
Although  we  had  a  world  of  fun 
With  Edward  Fox — the  Baptist's  son — 

That  single  hour's  diversion 
Sent  Edward — son  of  Deacon  Fox — 
Half  over  with  the  orthodox. 

Although  his  heart  and  head  were  right, 
Although  in  soul  a  Baptist  still. 


\ 


58  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKKR. 

To  gratify  a  stubborn  will 
The  lower  half  of  Edward  Fox 

Was  ever,  from  that  blessed  night 
A  rabid,  blue-light  orthodox, 

Or  death  against  immersion. 

I  think  'twas  after  she  had  gone 

And  put  another  apron  on, 

And  fixed,  like  other  angel  girls, 

Those  darling  little  water  curls, 

A,nd  hooked  new  nubs  or  ear-rings  in. 

Put  on  some  other  beads  and  pin, 

Used  camomile  instead  of  musk, 

And  slipped  in  sly  another  busk, 

And  with  her  side-combs  "primped"  her  hair  ; 

I  told  my  dear  Almira  there — 

Yes,  spoke  right  out — that  she  was  sweet 

And  nearly  good  enough  to  eat ; 

She  changed  so  quick  from  white  to  red 

It  made  a  swimming  in  my  head  ; 

The  doctors  for  a  fee,  you  know, 

"Would  call  that  swimming  vertigo. 

Heaven  only  knows  how  we  poor  fools 
Have  toiled  and  sweat,  from  day  to  day, 
To  earn  enough  in  part  to  pay 

For  such  old  stuff  they  learn  at  schools. 

As  felt  some  Grecian  mothers  son 
Who  bore  one  of  the  classic  names. 


MY    FIKST    COURTSHIP.  59 


In  boasting  of  a  prize  he  won 

At  those  renowned  Olympian  Barnes, 
I  strutted  with  a  peacock's  air. 
And  told  my  sweet  Almira  there 
How  I  and  Dolly  Peavey  ran. 

And  how  I  ran  the  faster 
When  old  York's  Durham  roared  and  pawed 

As  we  went  through  the  pasture. 
I  mind  it  well  I  tried  to  write 

Almira  Grant  a  love-sick  sonnet. 
And  how  my  heart  would  throb  that  night 

As  though  it  had  a  stone-bruise  on  it. 

The  darts  of  love  I  bravely  met, 
As  Switzer  Arnold  Winkelried 
Received  the  shafts  within  his  breast. 
When  by  the  Austrian  squadron  pressed. 
While  leading  through  the  Alpine  fray 
His  comrades  on  that  glorious  day. 
Young  Love-and  I  played  hide  and  seek, 

By  skulking  'round,  then  darting  in 
The  dimples  on  her  rosy  cheek 

And  creases  of  her  double  chin. 


I  told  my  dear  Almira  there. 
Who  looked  so  fleshy  and  so  fair. 
(While  sitting  prettv  near  her  chair) 


60  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


How  Rose  Ross  threw  a  ball  of  yarn 
Into  the  well  behind  the  barn, 

Then  wound  it  with  a  fellow ; 
How,  one  dark  night,  Robena  Rand 
Backed,  with  a  looking-glass  in  hand. 

Into  Joe  Hooker's  cellar — 
Not  old  fighting  Joseph  Hooker. 

Who,  above  the  clouds. 
In  the  loom  of  the  red  angel 

Wove  those  dead  men's  shrouds  ; 
Marching  through  those  blistered  regions 
With  his  blue  and  conquering  legions. 

Bathing,  as  they  trod. 
Bathing,  from  War's  purple  fountain, 
The  fevered  brow  of  Look-Out  mountain. 

Half  way  up  to  God  ; 
And  how  we  played  old  hide  and  seek. 

How  Liz.  Jones  tried  to  find  me. 
And  how  we  used  to  "shave  her  down" 
By  one  song  sung  by  Nancy  Brown. 
That  blessed,  sentimental  song, 
Which  my  scarred  heart  remembers  long. 

"The  girl  I  left  behind  me." 
'Twas  whistled,  too,  by  Simon  Phipps. 
Whose  lummox,  loose  and  lumbering  lips 
We  country  boys  with  wallets  thin 
Had  chartered  for  a  violin. 
Now  Simon's  notes  were  not  so  full 
\/ 


V 


\ 

MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  6l 


As  those,  perhaps,  from  Ole  Bull, 
And  then,  perchance,  had  not  the  ring 
Like  that  which  fell  from  Mozart's  string, 
And  not  like  Paganini's  strains, 
Which  he  would  barter  oft'  for  gains  ; 
What  Simon  lacked  in  art  sublime 
lie  well  made  up  in  lips  and  time : 
Sime.  learned  his  trade  in  Nature's  shop 
And  whistled  until  hired  to  stop. 
Until  my  sun  of  life  shall  set 
These  ancient  legs  can  ne'er  forget 
Those  gay  old  dances  up  at  Drew's, 
When  girls  flocked  in  with  calf-skin  shoes, 
And  never  left  the  kitchen  floor 
Till  one  good  pair  of  taps  they  wore  ; 
They  never  danced  the  eye  to  please, 
They  knew  no  polka  or  schottische  ; 
They  used  no  modern,  mincing  trips, 
As  though  tight  buckled  'round  their  hips 
Each  had  a  dozen  leathern  straps, 
When  on  the  boards  with  us  old  chaps  ; 
Our  style  was  this — we  "stronged"  it  through, 
Led  on  by  my  friend,  Hiram  Drew  ; 
You  know  old  Hiram  Drew,  of  course, 
The  man  who  raised  that  trotting  horse? 
Like  the  mad  waves  we  surged  about, 
Through  the  blind  whirl  of  jig  and  reel 
With  flourish  of  the  toe  and  heel, 


\ 


62 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Until  one  side  was  "tuckered"  out ; 
But  taking  breath  and  drying  sweat 
We  formed  on  for  another  set. 

That  ancient  music  from  the  lips 

Of  our  hired  whistler,  Simon  Phipps. 

Was  somewhat  different  I  should  sav 

From  that  I  heard  but  yesterday 

In  Reverend  Wooster  Parker's  church. 

(You  see  my  Muse  has  taken  a  lurch) 

There,  one  of  the  smooth-haired  fellows, 
I  noticed  that  he  looked  so  grand. 
Held  that  big  lever  in  his  hand 

And  blew  that  organ  bellows. 
Beside  that  girl  who  oft  was  seen 
To  thump  the  keys  on  that  machine, 
When  tunes  slid  out  so  smooth  and  still. 
As  grain  slides  from  a  winnowing  mill. 

And  then  I  bragged  how  Bose  would  fight 

When  Hi.  Drew's  dog  would  mad  him, 
And  how,  like  blazes,  Bright  would  pull 

When  Leather  French  would  brad  him— 
Old  Leather  French,  whose  hermit  name 

From  leathern  garb  was  fitly  given, 
Whose  fervent  prayer  like  incense  came 

Upon  each  wandering  breeze  of  heaven. 


MY    FIRST    COURTSH11'.  63 


Who  gave  earth's  favored  lodgers  room 
By  sleeping  in  a  pauper's  tomb 

All  unlettered,  unknown,  unattended  and  poor, 
Both  afoot  and  alone  he  went  down  to  a  shore 
With  no  weight  at  his  heart,  and  no  chafe,  I  am  told, 
With  no  chafe  from  the  lugging  of  silver  and  gold, 
With  a  gaze  at  a  mount,  in  a  summer-like  land. 
With  a  seat  by  a  form,  with  an  oar  in  its  hand. 
On  the  tide  and  the  wave  he  was  quickly  afloat 
With  no  baggage  to  bother  in  the  ferryman's  boat. 

Whene'er  I  see  a  poor  man  kneel. 

And  hear  his  fervent,  humble  prayer. 
Within  my  very  heart  I  feel 

'Tis  well  that  I  am  listening  there. 
Although  to  me  his  aims  are  dim. 
That  service  may  be  much  to  him  : 
It  tells  of  hopes  beyond  the  screens. 

Of  strugglings  through  a  bitter  strife, 
Of  trustings  to  an  Arm  unseen. 

Of  outlooks  to  a  higher  life  ; 
Whate'er  my  careless  tougue  may  say. 
My  heart  says,  "let  the  poor  man  pray." 

You  see  how  oft  my  Muse  will  turn 
And  meet  you  with  a  smile  or  frown, 

And  imitate  the  old  dash  churn 
That's  either  up  or  down. 


64  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Say,  what  would  you  give  for  a  look 

Through  a  book, 

Containing  each  word  from  the  lips  of  a  human 

In  his  billing  and  cooing. 

In  his  efforts  at  wooing 

The  heart  of  a  woman. 

Since  Adam  first  plucked  up  the  courage  to  lead  on 
And  court  that  old  girl  in  the  garden  of  Eden? 
When  my  hurry  is  over,  with  a  plenty  of  time, 
I  am  going  to  write  such  a  volume  in  rhyme. 

Though  the  record  declares  Adam  took,  as  his  bride, 

Blushing  Eve  as  she  leaped  from  a  rib  in  his  side  ; 

Yet  the  facts  being  known,  oh,  I  think  'twould  be  found 

That  he  courted  her  first  when  the  Lord  wasn't  round. 

He's  a  fool  who  would  marry  an  angel  of  light 

Till  he'd  courted  that  angel  at  least  for  a  night. 

There  was  sense  in  the  speech  of  the  boy,  who,  you  know, 

Wouldn't  work  till  he  first  got  the  hang  of  his  hoe. 

Ah  !  the  first  couple  on  the  Eden  ground — 

What  a  big  time  they  must  have  had  in  wooing — 
No  old  folks  standing  tip-toe,  "harking"  'round, 

Nor  -'peeking"  in  to  see  what  they  were  doing  : 
No  foreign  force  to  tempt  them  on  to  sin, 
For  this  was  just  before  the  snake  came  in. 
And  Adam,  to  secure  his  female  treasure,    « 
Had  the  full  swing  around  about  in  Asia ; 
And  ere  he  dressed  him  in  those  fig-leaf  pants, 


% 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


Had  elbow  room  that  I  had  not  at  Grant's  ; 

One  thing  looks  queer,  that  they  could  not  refrain 

From  hooking  pears,  and  then  from  raising  Cain. 

How  oft  I  dreamed  through  my  young  brains. 
That  I  should  lead  in  golden  chains 

My  blushing,  fair  Almira. 
As  led  that  famed  and  warring  man, 
The  Emperor  Aurelian. 
When,  meeting  with  success  one  day. 
He  conquered  proud  Zenobia, 

The  Queen  of  old  Palmyra. 

The  old  folks  woke  when  I  sung  "Brave  Wolfe," 

Then  kept  a  hem  and  hawing. 
And  then  I  let  her  "chaw"  my  gum 

Which  I  had  just  been  "chawing." 
I  felt  it  like  old  Bible  proof 

Her  love  was  most  divine, 
When  buckling  down  with  cherry  lips 

She  sucked  the  gum  from  mine. 
But  time  has  taught  my  cheated  heart 

To  watch  the  smile  and  frown. 
And  see  if  it  is  love  or  gum 

When^woman  buckles  down  ; 
For  woman  is  woman  wherever  you  go, 
'Mid  the  jabbering  hordes  of  the  Esquimaux 


I 


66  POEM'S    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Or  your  lettered  tribes,  where  the  pearly  face 
Shows  the  tint  of  the  Anglo  Saxon  race. 
She  snickered,  and  she  chawed  the  gum, 

When  I  hauled  from  my  waist-coat, 
And  played  my  jews-harp  I  had  bought 

One  day  of  Reuben  Prescott. 
Now  Prescott,  since  he  sold  that  harp, 

Much  money  has  been  clearing  ; 
While  I  slopped  over  into  rhymes, 

He  went  to  auctioneering. 

We  then  played  two  of  those  old  games 

I  learned  of  Esther  Norris  ; 
She  beat  me  bad  at  fox  and  geese, 

But  I  beat  her  at  morris. 
I  told  her  how  our  old  gray  mare 

Was  getting  lame  and  heavey  ; 
'Twas  one  we  had  the  Fall  before 

Of  dickering  Reuben  Seavey. 
Not  Seavey — Maine's  famed  surgeon,  now — 

Not  Calvin,  I  am  sure — 
Who  learned  to  cut  oft'  legs  and  arms 

Of  the  famed  Scotch  McRuer. 

She  then  brought  on  some  ivy  leaves 
Just  picked  near  Deacon  Howse's  ; 
We  sat  and  sat,  and  ate  the  best,  * 

And  then  we  filled  up  with  the  rest 
Both  pockets  of  my  trousers. 


V 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


While  I  was  sitting  by  her  side 

And  my  new  knife  was  showing, 
She  told  me  how  that  Peter  Rich 

With  Dora  Nutt  was  going. 
She  showed  me  her  new  calf-skin  shoes, 

Her  work-bag  and  her  duster, 
Her  vandyke  and  her  green  calash 

Which  she  had  bought  for  muster. 

\ 

Those  calf-skin  shoes  had  turned  up  toes. 

She  said  that  one  who  knew  her 
Told  her  to  wear  those  turned  up  toes 

As  they  were  more  becoming  to  her. 

Almira's  wardrobe,  or  trousseau, 
Was  not  like  Butler's  girl's,  you  know, 
That  rigging  with  those  awful  names 
Blanche  wore  when  marrying  General  Ames. 

All  trimmed  their  gowns  with  poppy  leaves, 
The  girls  we  loved,  in  those  old  days  ; 

They  wore  no  modern  "angel  sleeves" 
With  smilax  and  japonicas. 

I  had  no  extra  clothes  to  show, 

No  jsatinet  nor  shoddy  ; 
But  always  hung  all  wardrobe  then 

On  my  volumptuous  body. 


68  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

The  bull's-eye  watch  her  father  clean 
Had  made  by  horses  swapping, 

To  witness  well  the  amorous  scene 
Would  now  and  then  keep  stopping 


Then  hurrying  up  with  all  its  power. 
Laid,  while  we  both  were  fawning, 

Its  brassy  hands  upon  the  hour 
Which  told  the  birth  of  morning. 


The  rosy  tints  which  fell  aslant 
And  set  the  east  aglowing. 

Told  me,  if  not  Almira  Grant, 
'Twas  time  that  I  was  going. 


Outside  the  door  on  that  blest  morn 

When  heaven's  blue  stars  were  beaming. 

Our  first,  pure  rustic  kiss  was  born 
While  Shubael  Grant  lay  dreaming. 


In  wending  to  my  cottage  home, 

The  earth  beneath  and  heavens  above. 

And  all  the  circling  spheres  around 

Bespoke  and  breathed  of  nought  but  love. 


% 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


Andromeda,  I  noticed  then, 

From  the  northern  hemisphere 
Looked  down  and  smiled  tho'  chained  behind 

Her  mother,  Cassiopea. 


When  they,  and  all  the  laughing  hosts. 

Along  the  starry  trail. 
Reached  out  and  fixed  an  extra  kink 

In  Ursa  Major's  tail. 


When  twilight's  sable  curtain  falls, 
Then  stars  stand  thick  at  even 

To  act  as  outside  sentinels 
Around  the  gates  of  heaven. 


That  night,  along  the  shimmering  slant, 
(I  tell  you  true  my  brother,) 

The  pass- word  was  "  Almira  Grant" 
They  whispered  to  each  other. 


The  northern  lights  so  leaped  and  flashed, 

And  shot  their  fitful  rays, 
1  thought  that  "long  John"  Couillard's  shop 

One  moment  was  ablaze. 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


And  Boreas,  humming  through  the  trees 
Hushed  up  its  mournful  sigh, 

And  tried  to  laugh,  like  Shubael  Grant. 
Each  time  he  told  a  lie. 


I  milked  our  cross,  old  lop-horn  cow  ; 

She  never  acted  half  so  nice  ; 
She  never  broke  her  bow  but  once, 

And  never  kicked  my  pail  but  twice. 


Before  that  hour  a  hook  or  kick 
Would  follow  up  the  slightest  stir ; 

I  think  the  love  that  fired  my  breast 

Wrought  out  that  blessed  change  in  her. 


For  every  word  from  human  lips, 
The  harshest,  kindest  and  the  least. 

Will  make  its  impress,  deep  and  broad. 
Upon  the  heart  of  man  or  beast. 


And  not  one  thought  sweeps  o'er  the  soul. 

Though  never  by  a  word  expressed. 
But  that  some  hovering  spirit,  round. 

Transfers  it  to  another's  breast. 


MY   FIRST    COURTSHIP.  'Jl 

And  there,  within  its  secret  depths, 

So  surely,  steadily,  though  still, 
It  toils  through  many  a  weary  hour, 

And  does  its  work  for  good  or  ill. 

Had  I  this  tough  old  world  to  rule, 

My  cannon,  sword  and  mallet 
Should  be  the  dear  old  district  school, 

God's  Bible  and  the  ballot. 

If  Bible,  ballot  and  the  school 

Should  fail  me  all  in  turn,  then  let 
Me  have,  instead  of  rabble  rule, 

The  educated  bayonet. 

Amid  the  tumult  and  the  strife, 
In  weaving  out  our  web  of  life, 
Although  the  task  be  light  or  hard. 
Whatever  be  the  cost  per  yard 

A  doubloon  or  a  shilling, 
Regardless  of  our  prayer  or  ban, 
God  furnishes  the  warp  for  man, 

But  man  must  find  the  filling. 

My  Muse  oft  seeks  some  dizzy  height 

By  giving  one  unearthly  bound, 
Then,  quick  as  thought,  she  loves  to  light 

And  sing  her  songs  on  level  ground. 


f2  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Her  folks,  not  mine,  were  well  to  do. 

And  had  a  high  position, 
Though  bed  quilts,  hanging  up,  they  used 

Instead  of  board  partition. 

We  had  no  boards  to  make  two  rooms 

In  hot  or  chilly  weather. 
And  quilts  we  used  on  little  groups 

That  snuggled  down  together. 

For  mother's  tear-stained  widow's  weeds 
To  ten  young  hearts  were  telling. 

That  father  could  not  toil  for  us 

In  the  land  where  he  was  dwelling. 


'Tis  many  a  year  since  the  old  folks,  mine, 

With  their  mortal  eyes  have  seen  us, 
For  their  sight  grew  dim  on  a  winter's  day, 
And  they  wandered  off,  and  they  lost  their  way ; 
But  they  pressed  along,  though  they  hardly  knew 
Which  way  to  turn  or  what  to  do, 
For  the  night  came  on  and  it  chilled  them  through, 
But  I  learn  from  a  friend  who  has  just  come  back, 
That  they  struck  at  last  on  a  beaten  track 
Which  led  the  old  folks  safely  o'er 
To  a  fairer  sky  and  a  better  shore, 

Though  a  mist  now  broods  between  us. 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  7J 


And  my  friend  who  has  brought  these  tidings  o'er 
From  that  milder  sky  and  the  better  shore, 
Brings  a  word  from  the  old  folks  living  there, 
Where  the  lands  are  green  and  the  skies  are  fair, 
We  had  better  come-,  and  we  needn't  fear, 
For  the  work  isn't  hard  as  the  work  is  here, 
And  they  have  a  home  which  they  own  all  clear — 
Not  a  mortgaged  home  like  some  homes  here — 
But  a  home  as  good  as  a  home  need  be, 
With  a  plenty  of  room  for  the  girl  and  me. 
And  they  sent  me  word,  as  they  chanced  to  look 
One  day,  in  an  old,  worn  spirit  book, 
Which  the  angels  keep  for  the  oath  and  prayer, 
They  found  these  words  written  out  up  there  : 
"Those  chains  which  bind  her  as  the  wife 

"To  him  within  the  lower  land, 
"Shall,  by  the  laws  of  spirit  life. 

"Prove  only  as  a  rope  of  sand. 

"For,  after  earth's  mistakes  are  past, 

"Each  human,  yearning,  unmatched  heart. 

"In  some  of  God's  wide  spheres  at  last 
"Shall  find  its  own  true  counterpart." 

They  told  me  from  those  climes  above, 
One  boon  survives  this  mortal  breath, 

For  there  the  beauteous  form  of  love 

Finds  entrance  through  the  gates  of  Death. 

\x 


^ 


74  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

I  have  my  child — a  prattling  girl — 

One  tie  that  binds  me  to  my  wife  ; 
With  laughing  eyes  and  glossy  curl — 

A  chip  cut  from  my  tree  of  life  ; 
And  long  before  her  soul  is  fired 

By  dreams  of  bridal  ring  and  kiss, 
I  shall,  perhaps,  get  worn  and  tired, 

And  seek  some  other  clime  than  this. 
But  then — what  then?     I'll  take  no  sphere, 

Nor  hidden  place  above,  below, 
Where  I  can  gain  no  hint  from  here 

To  tell  me  how  home  matters  go. 
And  should  I  learn  my  child's  astray, 
By  flinging  her  young  heart  away, 
Worse  than  the  fate  the  Tuscan  found 
Who,  to  the  rotting  corpse  was  bound, 
I  swear  by  Him  who  gave  me  breath, 
There  is  no  secret  power  in  death, 
Nor  force  above  which  angels  know, 
Nor  chains  within  the  gulfs  below, 
Nor  distance  in  the  realms  of  God 
To  keep  me  from  my  darling  Maude  ! 
I  will  come  back  by  sign  or  grip, 
By  rap,  or  scroll,  or  table  tip, 
Or  steal  your  human  throngs  among, 
And  seize  upon  some  mortal  tongue, 
And  warn  my  child  to  shun  the  deck, 
The  voyage  with  him — the  storm — the  wreck  I 

'. \ 


MY    FIKST    COURTSHIP.  75 


The  story  of  my  creed  is  brief, 
1  have  this  shadowy  belief — 

My  only  hope  of  real  bliss— 
That  sometime  on  some  distant  day. 

I  shall  with  penitential  tear, 
Find  chance  to  blot  or  wash  away, 
Or,  at  the  least,  one  chance  to  try 
To  palliate  or  rectify, 

Within  some  far  more  favored  sphere, 
Some  blind  mistakes  I've  made  in  this, 
And  not  let  Innocence  atone 
For  crimes  or  errors  of  my  own. 

Don't  get  alarmed  at  my  poet  dreams, 

At  my  ghostly,  ghastly,  spirit  themes, 

For  it  may  be  in  the  times  afar, 

When  spirit  stocks  are  up  at  par 

I  shall  sell  out,  for  here  I  own. 

In  the  sight  of  Him  on  the  great  white  throne, 

In  my  wanderings  'round  from  creed  to  creed, 

In  my  dashings  ofTat  a  fearful  speed, 

With  my  bark  afloat  on  a  doubtful  wave. 

To  a  fitful  light  beyond  the  grave  ; 

I  have  learned  no  prayer  that  has  seemed  to  me 

Like  the  one  I  lisped  at  my  mother's  knee. 

Fate  has  decreed,  to  win  our  wives 
We  cannot  sail  around  their  coop. 


76  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


And  come  the  night-hawk  when  he  dives 
And  take  them  at  a  single  swoop. 

You  cannot  seize  our  modern  dames, 

With  rings  and  bustles,  hoops  and  curls, 

As,  at  those  Neptune  feasts  and  games. 
The  Romans  grabbed  the  Sabine  girls. 

But  man  must  have  his  hours  of  fuss, 
Must  fawn  and  bluster,  fret  and  crone, 

In  keeping  off  some  rival  "cuss" 
Who  has  more  bear's-oil  and  cologne. 

If  you  wish  to  outdo  a  Chinaman  — 

A  real  Chinaman  to  beat — 
The  safest,  wisest,  surest  plan 
Is  an  extra  braid  in  your  flaunting  queue  ; 
In  your  vest  an  extra  shade  or  two, 

And  an  extra  breadth  in  your  trousers'  seat ; 
And,  my  friend,  if  you  ever  fall  in  love, 
And  another  is  after  your  turtle-dove, 
The  safest,  wisest,  surest  plan 
Is  the  same  you  would  try  on  a  Chinaman  ; 
For  woman  is  woman  wherever  you  go, 
'Mong  the  jabbering  hordes  of  the  Esquimaux, 
(Which  I  roamed  among  long  years  ago) 
Or  your  lettered  tribes,  where  the  pearly  face 
Shows  the  tint  of  the  Anglo  Saxon  race. 
Since  the  primeval  birth  of  morn. 

\ 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


77 


When  the  voice  came,  k>let  there  be  light,' 
There  never  was  a  woman  born — 

A  real  woman,  moulded  right, 
Who  would  not  through  this  vale  of  tears. 
Form  one  blade  of  the  human  shears. 

Miss  Katie  Field  you  all  must  know, 

That  pure  young  type  of  womanhood — 
I'll  bet  my  head — worth  much  to  me — 
That  Katie  Field — yes,  even  she. 

When  in  the  Adironack  wood. 
And  for  the  night  was  snuggled  down 
Beside  the  soul  of  old  John  Brown 
Would  sometimes  dream  about  a  beau — 
A  beau,  not  of  the  spirit  form. 
But  clothed  in  solid  flesh,  so  warm — 
With  sinewy  arms  to  chop  or  hug, 
With  arms  her  kindling  stuff  to  lug. 
To  build  her  fire  and  cook  her  food 
Within  the  Adirondack  wood. 

Experience  proves  'twill  never  pay 
To  hire  your  wandering  spirit  bands 
With  boneless  feet  and  nerveless  hands 

To  chop  your  cord- wood  by  the  day. 

I  think  some  forty  years  ago, 
A  boy  whose  name  was  William  Snow 
Lived  up  near  Deacon  Howse's — 


•>7 

78  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


His  mother  never  loved  to  mend, 
And  having  little  time  to  spend 
One  Winter  dressed  him  up  so  neat, 
But  fixed  a  kind  of  double  seat 

In  making  his  new  trousers — 
So  when  the  hinder  seat  was  wore, 
The  boy  could  turn  it  round  before  ; 
But  then  one  trouble  you  should  know, 
Came  up  with  poor  old  Mrs.  Snow  ; 

'Twas  said  there  was  no  knowing 
When  Bill  would  walk  from  place  to  place, 
Unless  you  chanced  to  see  his  face, 

Which  way  the  boy  was  going. 
The  seat  before  and  seat  behind 
Just  made  the  thing  a  little  blind  ; 
Thus  in  my  rhymes  I  oft  compete 
With  Bill  Snow's  double  trousers'  seat. 

My  Muse  so  oft  is  shifting, 
Unless  you  watch  her  movements  well, 
You'll  find  it  mighty  hard  to  tell 

Which  way  she  is  drifting  ; 
Enough  for  me  that  in  her  song 
She  seeks  the  right  and  spurns  the  wrong. 

Our  bridal  tour  was  all  arranged — 

O 

'Twas  not  for  Saratoga, 
Nor  Orchard  Beach,  nor  Belfast  Bay — 
Down  where  I  caught  a  wife  one  day — 


-s^ 

xT 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  79 

And  where  they  catch  the  porgy  ; 
Nor  Plymouth  Rock,  nor  Mount  Desert — 
That  natural  place  to  fish  and  flirt — 
But  then,  as  Grant's  whole  team  and  ours 

Were  hauling  bark  for  Skinner, 
We  'greed  to  foot  it  down  to  Tower's 

And  wait  till  after  dinner  : — 
Then  take  the  back  road  out  bv  Wright's 
And  stop  with  Betsy  Cook  two  nights  ; 
For  Grant's  own  cousin,  Peter  Brooks. 
Was  shaving  shingles  down  at  Cook's. 
In  case  the  Cooks'  were  not  at  home, 

Or  didn't  ask  us  both  to  stay. 
We  were  to  foot  it  back  that  night 

And  eat  our  sweet  cake  on  the  way. 
In  a  tough,  hard  old  world  like  this, 
'Twere  well  if  many  more  would  be 
Somewhat  like  Almira  Grant  and  me 
And  guard  against  contingencies. 
And  then  to  close  our  honey-moon. 

When  she  had  knit  some  linen  lace, 
We  were  to  spend  one  afternoon 

At  that  old  classic  watering  place 
You  all  must  know,  that  Lombard  stream, 

Where  Dole  and  Drew  and  Booth  and  Locke 
Caught  suckers  by  the  birch-bark  gleam, 

And  where  they  watered  all  their  stock. 


x\ 

So  POKMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Grant  talked  of  adding  to  his  house — 

To  make  the  rude  log  cabin  square — 
So,  through  my  brain  these  thoughts  would  run, 
When  the  dear  girl  and  I  were  one, 
With  the  first  brand  new  Hampden  stove. 
With  spread  and  tick  her  mother  wove, 
And  chest  which  Shubael  Grant  could  make 
To  keep  our  handsome  clothes  and  cake. 
And  the  whole  mulberry  tea-set  bought 
With  blackberries  the  dear  girl  had  got. 
With  six  red  chairs  Jail  bottomed  fine 
With  basket  stuff  or  ''•ellum  rine ;" 
With  blushing  flowerets  peeping  through 
The  barrel  we  could  saw  in  two ; 
With  half-high  bed  and  cedar  broom 
We'd  occupy  the  new  front  room 

And  take  such  solid  comfort  there. 
God  never  made  a  purer  gem 
That  sparkles  in  a  diadem 
Than  the  ambitious,  modest  pride 
Within  the  breast  of  the  young  bride 
\Vho  strives — though  poverty  her  lot — 
To  beautify  her  humble  cot. 

When  you  have  loved  some  red-cheek  girl, 
With  many  a  dimple,  many  a  curl. 
And  waited  on  her  night  and  day, 
And  many  a  side-comb  given  away. 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


With  heart  and  soul  aglovving  with  her — 
When  Love  has  formed  its  choicest  plan, 
To  find  some  short-legg'd  gentleman 

With  frizzled  hair  a  going  with  her; 
Although  by  nature  meek  and  mild, 
It  makes  you  feel  a  little  riled. 

From  saint  or  sinner,  fop  or  prude, 
There's  nothing  like  pure  gratitude. 
For  one  I  go,  if  I  go  alone, 

For  the  sergeant,  Tillman  Joy, 
Who  told  them  square  down  at  Spunky  Point, 

In  the  State  of  Illinois. 
If  they  drove  him  out  or  they  touched  one  hair 

Of  the  black  boy,  Banty  Tim, 
Who  trumped  death's  ace  at  Vickshurg  Heights, 

Yes,  trumped  death's  ace  for  him  ; 
When  the  sergeant  told  how  his  ribs  caved  in 

From  the  whirl  of  a  splintered  shell. 
And  the  black  boy  shouldered  and  lugged  him  through 

From  the  fire-proof,  gilt-edged  hell  : 
How  he  stronged  him  off  in  his  brawny  arms 

At  the  ring  of  the  Union  calls. 
Though  his  dark  hide  looked  like  a  pepper-box 

As  'twas  riddled  by  Rebel  balls ; 
Yes,  I  go  for  these  tough,  rough  words  that  boiled 

From  the  heart  of  that  sergeant  Joy — 
''He  will  rassle  his  hash  in  hell  to-night 

Who  touches  that  black-skin  boy  !" 


82  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Fix  all  your  earthly  plans  so  nice, 

And  Burns  would  say — 
"The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley" 


Another  fellow  gazed  on  her — 

A  swanking,  brainless  high-head — 

With  this  advantage  over  me, 
He'd  better  clothes  than  I  had. 


He  wore  a  full-cloth  suit  of  clothes, 
One  made  by  a  man  tailor  ; 

My  mother  made  mine  out  of  wale. 
Though  cut  by  Hannah  K'aler. 


My  home-made  cap  was  red  and  blue, 
The  young  sprout  seemed  to  chuckle, 

For  a  felt  hat  graced  his  bullet  head, 
With  hat-band  and  with  buckle. 


The  shirt  I  wore  my  mother  made 

Without  much  extra  stitching, 
'Twas  carded,  colored,  spun  and  wove 

Within  the  old  log  kitchen. 
\ 


MY   FIRST    COURTSHIP.  83 


He  wore  an  eight  cent  boughten  one 
Though  very  few  could  use  'em  — 

And  then,  by  thunder!  in  that  shirt 
He  had  a  linen  bosom  ! 


'Twas  ironed  stiffer  than  a  stake — 
He  knew  such  bosom  pleases — 

And  then  'twas  ironed  up  and  down, 
And  then  across  in  creases. 


And  Gale  had  collar-buttons,  too, — 
My  shirts  I  used  to  pin  them  ; 

And,  don't  you  think,  his  wristbands  once 
Had  bone  sleeve-buttons  in  them  ! 


His  stocking  yarn,  he  said,  was  dyed 

By  Mrs.  Jonas  Warner, 
But  mine  was  dipped  in  our  dye-house, 

The  dye-pot  in  the  corner. 


He  used  fresh  bear's-oil  on  his  hair 
To  please  that  mother's  daughter  ; 

I  used  a  wooden  pocket  comb 
Dipped  into  soap  and  water. 


1'OEMS    BY    DAVID    BAKKKR. 


'Mid  all  attempts  to  please  the  fair. 

I  think  I  never  yet 
Stuck  side-combs  in  my  parted  hair 

Or  wore  a  chemisette. 


I  have  a  love  for  things  Divine 
And  every  thing  that's  human — 

Except  a  brothy,  female  man, 
Conceived  by  a  male  woman. 


I  dined  on  bannocks  at  the  school 
Kept  down  at  Huldah  Grover's  : 

He  carried  nut-cakes  once  a  week. 
And  frequently  turnovers. 


My  hair  was  parted  at  the  side — 
His  parted  in  the  middle  ; 

I  played  upon  the  old  bass  drum  — 
He  played  upon  the  fiddle. 


Our  buskin  strings  were  made  of  tow 
And  twisted  by  each  mother  ; 

But  after  Caleb  put  on  airs, 

His  buskin  strings  were  leather. 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP. 


How  many  things  like  buskin  strings. 
While  traveling  to  death's  portals. 

Have  builded  high  the  walls  of  caste 
To  separate  poor  mortals  ! 


He  used  a  pongee  handkerchief 
Lent  by  his  cousin  Hannah — 

I  used  the  one  I  carry  now, 
A  cotton,  red  bandanna. 


I  rubbed  cold  tallow  on  my  shoes 
To  keep  those  shoes  from  cracking ; 

On  week  days  he  used  melted  grease 
And  Sundays  he  used  blacking. 


And  both  of  Caleb's  ears  were  bored — 
A  pegging  awl  run  through  them  — 

And  two  new  German  silver  rings 
Like  drops  of  sweat  hung  to  them. 


Some  women  cannot  stand  such  show — 
The  gay  "cuss"  seemed  to  know  it ; 

And  so  he  spoiled  one  heaven-made  match, 
But  made  one  earthly  poet. 


86  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 

"Poeta  nascitur  nonjH" 

Was  true,  perhaps,  when  it  was  said, 

But  times,  since  then,  have  changed  a  bit; 
For  now-a-days,  'tis  plain  to  see 
To  save  the  nurse  and  doctor's  fee 

Most  poets  are  not  born,  but  made. 

Ah,  vain  attempt  on  me  to  try 
The  doctrine  that  there  is  no  lie 

As  some  have  sung  or  said  ; 
That  falsehood  is  the  child  of  truth 
That  capers  'round  within  its  youth 

And  stands  upon  its  head. 
I  say  it  in  this  world  beneath, 
Yes,  shout  it  in  the  very  teeth 

Of  philosophic  cant, 
It  was  a  whopper — nothing  more — 
That  teetered  me  in  days  of  yore 

Out  of  Almira  Grant. 
You'll  always  find  the  road  up  hill 
To  drive  a  woman  'gainst  her  will ; 

Yes,  even  if  you  know  most, 
'Tis  better,  safer,  to  engage 
To  split  wood  with  an  iron  wedge. 

And  drive  it  butt  end  foremost. 

I  promised  to  be  true  as  steel, 
She  promised  to  be  truer — 


/\ 

MY   FIRST    COURTSHIP.  87 


But  oaths  she  broke  and  soon  became 
The  bride  of  Gale  McCluer. 

Yes,  ere  twelve  circling  golden  suns 

Within  the  East  had  risen, 
To  fill  my  youthful  cup  with  woes, 
Both  stood  up  in  their  handsome  clothes 
And  pressed  each  other's  palms  in  turn, 
He  swearing  ever  to  be  "hern," 

She  swearing  to  be  "hisen." 

Cale  cut  me  out  and  took  the  girl 
I  loved  and  spotted  for  my  wife  ; 

But  there  are  things  besides  the  girls 
Of  which  we're  oft  cut  out  in  life. 

But,  after  all  is  done  and  said, 

'Tis  better,  as  the  heart  will  prove, 

To  love  a  girl  you  cannot  wed, 
Than  wed  a  girl  you  cannot  love. 

And  though  life's  fiery  trials  bring 

Some  vain  regrets  and  bitter  tears. 
This  earth  is  but  a  scaffolding — 
A  scaffolding  so  broad  and  grand — 
On  which  God's  spirit  workmen  stand 
To  build  us  up  for  higher  spheres. 


V 


88  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

One  day  Van  Pronk,  a  Dutchman,  died — 

His  widow,  fair  and  good, 
Ordered  a  likeness  of  Van  Pronk — 

A  statue  carved  from  wood. 

But  soon  another  Dutchman  came, 
A  Dutchman  fresli  and  yonk  ; 

The  widow,  for  a  courting  fire. 
Then  split  up  old  Van  Pronk  ! 

Almira,  once  of  me  so  fond, 
When  Caleb  came  to  woo  her. 

Split  me,  Van  Pronk,  for  kindling  wood 
To  warm  up  Cale  McCluer. 

And  such  is  life — both  sons  and  sires. 

The  worldling  and  the  monk, 
To  feed  the  flames  of  new  desires 

Will  split  up  old  Van  Pronk. 

The  Leathers's  took  up  the  cry, 
And  prophesied  that  I  should  die  ; 

But,  then,  'tis  my  belief 
'Tis  mighty  seldom  that  you  see 
A  gentleman  built  just  like  me 

For  standing  love  and  grief. 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  89 


We  had  no  lawyer  in  our  town 
To  take  our  greenbacks  from  us  ; 

No  learned  man  to  bring,  for  me. 
A  suit  for  breach  of  promise. 

These  were  long  years  before  my  mind 
Had  turned  to  legal  reading — 

Though  'Mira  thought  I  understood 
The  forms  of  "special  pleading." 


So  there  are  times  when  human  laws 

Cannot  be  found  to  save  us  ; 
When  we  must  use  those  substitutes 

Which  God  or  Nature  gave  us. 

Next  day  I  met  the  festive  lover. 

When  Caleb  put  on  airs  anew  — 
When  wounded  love  and  wounded  pride, 

When  anger  and  ambition,  too, 
Came  rushing,  frantic,  to  my  side. 
And  fired  the  feelings  of  a  man, 
Then  raised  my  double-sole  brogan 
Against  the  form  of  Cale  McClure, 
That  ponderous  part  of  him,  I'm  sure, 
Which  seemed  the  most  exposed  to  be, 
That  part  of  his  anatomy 


90  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Which  gentlemen  with  coat-tails  cover. 
I  fdt  it,  whether  wrong  or  right, 
The  hour  had  come  for  me  to  fight ; 
I  felt  myself  in  the  same  fix 
As  the  old  Massachusetts  Six, 
When  thro'  the  mob  they  hewed  their  way 

'Mid  the  first  spatter  of  the  gore — 
Upon  that  wild,  old  April  day — 
In  the  red  streets  of  Baltimore. 
'Tis  settled  we'll ;  there  seems  to  be 
(I  learn  it  from  zoology) 
Four  types  or  grades  of  animals, 
And  which  the  man  of  science  calls 
The  vertebrated, 
Articulated, 
The  mollusk 
And  the  radiated. 
That  day,  in  looking  Caleb  over, 
I  found  the  festive  rival  lover 

Possessed  the  functions  of  the  four  ; 
But  when  I  raised  my  foot  to  rout  him, 
I  found, — 

The  way  he  measured  off  the  ground — 
There  was  but  little  man  about  him. 
With  my  passions  boiled  down  in  my  youthful  brogan, 
Oh,  the  way  that  I  routed  that  young  married  man 
Makes  me  think  of  the  time,  on  that  glorious  day, 
That  we  routed  the  Rebs  in  the  Winchester  fray ; 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  9! 

When  Phil.  Sheridan  flew  o'er  the  Winchester  course — 
Resembling  the  picture  of  Death  on  his  horse. 
If  there's  one  in  this  crowd  to  the  Union  so  true, 
That  he  shouldered  his  gun  and  was  dressed  up  in  blue, 
And  was  there  in  that  fight — in  that  battle  so  grand — 
I  will  wait  for  a  time  till  he  holds  up  his  hand  ; — 
Yes,  I  see  you  were  there,  when  the  old  starry  flag 
Slapped  its  folds  in  the  face  of  that  rattle-snake  rag. 

Bret  Harte,  no  doubt,  in  writing  how  poor  Walker 

Was  dogged  from  rock  to  tree, 
Had  heard  about  my  routing  Cale  McClure 

And  took  his  style  from  me. 
Bret  says,  when  Walker  blew  a  hole  thro'  Peters 

For  telling  him  he  lied, 
Then  up  and  dusted  out  of  South  Hornitos, 

Across  the  long  Divide  ; 
They  ran  out  at  Strong's,  and  up  thro'  Eden, 

And  'cross  the  ford  below  ; 
Then  up  the  mountain — Peter's  brother  leadin, 
With  guide  and  Clark  and  Joe. 

I  feel  it,  somehow, 

That  I  ought  to  be  a  little  more  definite  now. 

And  to  tell  you  the  spot  on  this  new  married  man 

That  I  hit  with  the  sole  of  my  maddened  brogan  ; 

It  was  just  at  the  forks  that  was  made  by  his  pins, 
And  near  at  the  point — if  my  memory  don't  fail — 
Where  Agassiz  tells  me  the  base  of  the  tail 


92  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Of  a  perfectly  well  formed  gorilla  begins. 

As  age  creeps  on,  'tis  strange  how  memory  fails — 

For,  come  to  think,  gorillas  have  no  tails  ! 

Another  blind  mistake,  'twixt  you  and  me, 

I  never  saw  this  famous  Agassiz. 

One  sterling  principle  of  law 

I  find  is  settled  well- 
Each  has  the  right  to  run  or  fight. 

In  earth,  or  heaven,  or  hell ; 
But  cannot  find  in  any  code. 
The  Koran,  Shaster,  or  the  Word 
Which  Moses  from  the  mountain  heard  ; 
In  any  musty  book  of  mine, 
The  human,  doubtful,  or  Divine — 

'Tis  written  down  a  sin 
To  gently  raise  your  young  brogan 
Against  the  form  of  any  man 
Who  steals  by  night  your  girl  away, 
Then  puts  on  airs  the  coming  day 

And  tries  to  rub  it  in. 

Gale's  father  kept  a  dancing  school — 

Perhaps  the  old  folks,  present,  knew  him — 

He  was  a  fiddling  barber,  too, 

His  wife  was  double  cousin  to  him. 

They  say  when  double  cousins  wed, 
By  Fowler's  phrenologic  rules, 

Their  children  are  almighty  smart 


i 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  93 


Or  else  they  are  almighty  fools. 
Now  Caleb  spread  himself  so  wide 

He  lapped  each  phrenologic  rule  ; 
For,  every  day  and  every  time, 

Cale  was  a  smart,  almighty  fool. 
On  marriages  I  make  no  raids  : 
I  make  no  thrusts  at  honest  trades ; 
By  sledge  and  hammer,  spade  and  hoe. 
By  lathered  brush  or  rosined  bow, 
By  sword  and  lancet,  pill  and  probe, 
By  priestly  cowl  and  priestly  robe  ; 

Man  has  the  right  to  earn  his  pelf. 
Although,  from  policy  or  pride, 
I  keep  no  striped  pole  outside. 
By  razors  strapped  on  Coke  and  Kent, 
And  lather  made  from  twelve  per  cent., 

I  run  a  shaving  mill  myself! 
But  then,  amid  my  wrong  and  right. 

I  never  did  nor  never  can 
Defraud  a  fool,  a  cripple  fight, 

Or  plague  a  crazy  man. 

I've  read — but  where  I  cannot  say — 
In  that  old  Indian  book  by  Drake, 

In  Hudibras  or  Rabelais, 

Or  else,  perhaps,  in  Ida  May. 

Or  dreamed  it  all  when  wide  awake  ; 

In  Audubon  on  forest  birds, 


94  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

On  Ganssen's  Plenary  Inspiration  ; 
In  Doctor  Dadd  on  flocks  and  herds, 

Or  Rollin  on  some  ancient  nation  ; 
In  some  weird  tale  by  Walter  Scott, 

His  Black  Dwarf  or  his  Quentin  Durward  ; 
In  Mrs.  Lane's  Forget- Me-Not, 

Or  those  etherial  songs  by  Sherwood  ; 
In  some  old  book  where  gibberish  words 

Were  found  like  *-*ego,  tuus,  meus" 
Or  in  some  work  of  modern  date, 

Your  Ecce  Homo,  Ecce  Deus  ; 
In  Random  Rambles  'Mong  the  Tombs, 

Which  makes  the  brain  feel  wild  and  frantic  ; 
In  some  quaint  scrap  by  Wendell  Holmes 

Just  published  in  the  last  Atlantic ; 
In  Miracles  bv  Doctor  Stone, 

Or  rhymes  by  Hosea  Bigelow, 

Or  Uncle  Tom  by  Mrs.  Stowe — 
Hold  up  your  horses  !  here  I  own 

I've  given  these  names  just  for  a  show 
As  thousand  others  have  before, 

To  make  the  auditors — the  green  — 
Believe  they  have  a  world  of  lore 

From  books  their  eyes  have  never  seen. 
I  never  read  one-half  the  books 

Here  named,  so  pompously,  to-night; 
And,  ten  to  one,  'twixt  me  and  you, 

I  havn't  spelt  the  names  aright. 


% 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  95 


I  have  no  eye,  no  love — I  own — 

For  beauties  in  your  lettered  lore ; 
Upon  the  cold,  white  leaf  alone 

I  find  no  heart  to  look  them  o'er  ; 
But  let  those  lettered  beauties  shine 
Upon  this  brain  and  heart  of  mine, 

All  pure  and  radiant,  fresh  and  warm. 
Shine  through  that  strange,  mysterious  prism — 

Some  human,  sympathetic  form, 
But  vet  intcnser  organism — 

Or,  held  within  that  circling  band. 
Upon  the  unseen,  verging  line 

Which  separates  the  border  land  ; 
And  I  can  see  and  feel  their  power, 
And  in  the  fervent,  frenzied  hour, 
Transfer  those  rays  with  rustic  art 
Which  fall  upon  rny  brain  and  heart. 

Now  let  me  stop  and  quote  eight  lines 

From  Lalla  Roo,  or  Lalla  Rookh, 
You'll  find  the  verses  printed  out 

In  Tom  Moore's  Irish  poet  book  : 
"Oh,  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour. 

I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay — 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower, 

But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away. 
I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle. 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft,  black  eye, 
\ 


96  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well. 
And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die." 

Moore  wrote  those  lines  with  heart  and  soul, 
With  thought  some  critic's  taste  to  please  ; 

But,  writing  them,  Tom  felt  no  worse 
Than  I  in  writing  lines  like  these. 

A  pale,  thin  form  oft  meets  my  gaze. 

Clad  out  in  tattered  dresses, 
Compelled  to  take  through  forms  of  law 

A  bloated  brute's  caresses. 

And,  as  she  passes,  oft  I  dream 

When  in  my  office  lawing, 
That  form  resembles  a  green  girl 

That  my  spruce  gum  was  "chawing." 

And,  ah  !   I  well  remember  once, 

In  making  up  my  docket. 
Instead  of  my  old  client's  name — 

I  think  his  name  was  Patrick  Dunn — 
My  hand,  entranced,  wrote  out  the  name, 

The  strangely  magic  name  of  one 
Who,  by  a  tallow  candle's  light, 
Crammed  ivy  leaves  with  me,  one  night, 

Into  my  trousers'  pocket. 


MY    FIRST    COURTSHIP.  97 

Oh,  for  that  blessed  hour  and  place, 

When  some  benign  divinities 
May  furnish  souls,  unmated  here, 

With  spiritual  affinities ! 

I  care  not  where  that  place  may  be, 

Though  to  that  place  is  given 
The  common  scare-crow  name  of  hell, 

Or  the  milder  one  of  heaven. 

How,  many  and  many  an  hour,  I  feel 
That  Cale  McCluer  should  meet  my  steel, 
Or  whizzing  bullet,  were  it  not 
For  this  truth  that  Hans  Breitmann  wrote  : 

'•Ach,  de  efils  dat  from  efil 

Troo  a  life  ish  ever  grow  ! 

Had  I  never  dink  I  killed  you 

Many  a  man  were  living  now, 

Many  a  man  dat  shleeps  in  canebrakes, 

Many  a  man  py  pillow-shore  ; 

For  dy  morder  make  me  reckelos, 

And  von  tead  man  gries  for  more  !" 

I  have,  upon  life's  lower  plane, 

Some  darling  ones  around  me  ; 
And  I  have  ties  in  upper  spheres 

Whose  spirit  links  have  bound  me  ; 


98  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKF.R. 

And  I  have  bread  enough  in  store, 

And  friends,  from  judge  to  peasant, 
To  keep  the  gaunt  wolf  from  my  door, 

At  least  just  for  the  present. 
I  love  them  all  as  man  should  love, 

And  love  to  write  and  sing  'em, 
But  since  that  strange  and  primal  brush 

Which  came  from  that  girl's  gingham, 
My  heart  has  never  beat  as  then, 

While  sitting  by  Almira, 
Upon  that  night  I  reckon  from 

As  Arabs  from  Hegrira. 


'Tis  said  the  microscope  now  tells 

That  every  breathing  human  frame 
Is  made  from  little  curious  cells, 

And  all  too  numerous  to  name ; 
That  each  contains  distinct,  alone, 
A  life,  a  being  of  its  own. 
Oh,  could  I  be  but  young  once  more! 

I  feel  I  can,  then  feel  I  can't, 
And  she  was  blooming  as  of  yore — 

That  daughter  of  old  Shubael  Grant — 
How  would  my  spirit  love  to  dwell, 
For  ages  in  each  tiny  cell, 
Then  garner  in  each  little  life, 
And  form  one  entity — a  wife. 


MY   FIRST    COURTSHIP.  99 

I  ask  no  purer  draught  of  bliss. 
No  other  Moslem  heaven  than  this  : 
Except  outside  my  gate  I  should 
Keep  Cale  McCluer  sawing  wood. 
I  went  to  Denmark  once,  you  know. 
And  there,  I  learned  that,  years  ago, 
In  Jutland,  when  a  warrior  died, 

They  took  the  mailed  and  grinning  corse 
And  stretched  the  stiffened  legs  astride 

The  back  of  his  scarred  battle- horse, 
Then  pranced  the  snorting  steed  around, 

When  the  pale  corse 

And  the  live  horse 

Were  buried  'neath  some  burial  mound. 
I  cannot  help  it — no,  I  can't — 
When  thinking  of  Almira  Grant; 
I  sometimes  wish  I  was  that  corse 
If  Cale  McCluer  was  my  horse  ! 


With  all  my  love  for  Caleb's  bride. 

Of  one  thing  I  am  sure, 
Though  you  may  take  my  pledge  or  not, 

I  will  not  on  this  earthly  side 
Lay  claim  by  act,  or  word,  or  thought, 

To  the  wife  of  Cale  McCluer. 
Maine's  statute  law  gives  Cale  the  right 
To  claim  that  wife  both  day  and  night ; 


POEMS    BV    DAVID    BARKER. 


But  may  be,  on  that  yonder  side  — 

That  spirit  side  the  water  — 
Where  old  earth  laws  are  all  repealed, 
And  truth  and  love  are  quick  revealed, 
As  Cale  McCluer  did  years  ago, 
I  may  just  put  on  airs,  you  know, 
And  ask  the  curl-haired  spirit  fop 
To  vacate,  there,  his  bridal  shop, 
And  then  take  charge  of  Caleb's  wife, 

And  of  old  Shubael's  daughter. 

The  new-born,  blissful  butterfly 
While  scooting  through  the  liquid  sky 

With  its  ethereal  tiller 
May  recollect,  and  with  a  squirm, 
The  way  folks  used  him  when  a  worm 

Or  creeping  caterpillar. 
Though  arms  be  swapped  for  wings,  yet  I 
May  think  back  like  the  butterfly  ; 

"For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even. 
And,  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 
There  never  yet  was  human  power 

Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven. 
The  patient  search,  and  vigil  long, 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong." 

But  I  have  blabbed  of  death  enough  — 
I  feel  the  risk  of  death  like  this  : 


MY    FIKST    COURTSHIP.  IOI 

'Tis  like  the  playing  blind-man's-buff 

Around  some  fearful  precipice. 
All  creeds  and  all  foundations  laid, 

All  promises  through  pardoning  grace 
Are  swept  like  grass  before  the  blade 

When  gazing  in  a  dead  man's  face. 

"There  is  not  of  that  castle  gate, 
Its  draw-bridge  or  portcullis  weight, 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge  or  barrier  left. 
Nor  of  its  fields  a  blade  of  grass, 
Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall 
Where  stood  the  hearth-stone  of  the  hall." 


Thus  spoke  the  old  Mazeppa,  freed 
From  Palatine's  wild  Tartar  steed  ; 

And  thus  speak  I,  that  you  may  know 
The  fate  of  Grant's  old  log  house  where 

McCluer  and  I,  long  years  ago, 
Once  battled  for  Almira  there  : 
That  castle  to  which  Caleb  ran 
With  three  hoists  from  mv  young  brogan. 

The  cot  where  Shubael  Grant  once  dwelt 

Has  felt  the  force  of  Time's  decay. 
The  place  where  'Mira's  mother  knelt 


1O2  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

I  visited  but  yesterday  ; — 
1  heard  no  sound  like  those  of  yore 

When  Grant's  whole  tribe  of  children  played  ; 
I  found  no  foot-prints  at  the  door 

Which  I  or  Cale  McCluer  made. 
A  groan,  a  tear,  the  spade,  the  mound, 

Then  the  tall  grass  came  bending  o'er 
The  forms  of  three  young  laughing  girls 

Who  "peeked"  down  thro'  that  chamber  floor. 
Those  three  small  boys  who  cuddled  down 

Within  the  trundle-bed  that  night, 
Dressed  up  in  blue  and  went  to  God 

From  Spottsylvania's  gory  fight ! 
One  topless  tree  now  stands  between 

Two  knolls  where  Shubael  piled  his  wood  ; 
One  little  heap  of  rocks  is  seen 

On  which  the  catted  chimney  stood. 
Around  that  spot  how  many  a  time, 

When  dreaming,  drunk  with  saddened  bliss. 
Some  relic  of  a  Scottish  rhyme 

Has  pelted  at  my  heart  like  this  : 

'lMy  master's  gone,  and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  halls  of  Ivor, 
Men,  dogs  and  horses,  all  are  dead — 

I  am  the  sole  survivor." 
When  Cale  McCluer  had  stole  my  girl. 
And  brokers  came  one  chilling  morn 
And  claimed,  through  my  dead  father's  deed, 


MY   FIRST    COURTSHIP.  103 

My  mother's  cot  where  I  was  born  — 
I  cannot  tell  the  reason  why, 

But  heart  and  brain  and  nerve  grew  strong, 
And  quickly  took  this  wholesome  hint 
From  fragments  of  an  Irish  song : 

"When  nettles  grow  around  the  hearth, 
And  towers  that  now  so  stately  stand, 
In  scattered  fragments  fill  the  earth, 
And  Saxon  strangers  own  the  land, 
To  Adrighoole's  sea-beaten  coast 
Then  let  O'Gara's  son  repair  ; 

Wrealth  far  beyond  what  he  has  lost, 
And  joy  shall  be  restored  him  there." 


CONCLUSION. 

Now  stick  to  your  homes,  whether  husband  or  wife, 
With  a  hope  in  the  skies  and  a  purpose  in  life  ; 
Tho'  you  revel  in  wealth,  or  thro'  poverty  plod, 
Be  true  to  yourselves,  to  each  other  and  God  ; 
In  your  journeyings  thro',  whether  servant  or  master, 
Like  the  brave  engineer  at  the  Hamburg  disaster — 
Whatever  your  loss  or  whatever  your  gain — 
Like  immortal  "Doc  Simmons,"^?  down  with  the  train. 


\J 


A  WELCOME 

TO  THE  HUGH  DE  PAYEN  COMMANDERY  OF  KNIGHTS  TEM 
PLAR,  MELROSE,  MASSACHUSETTS,   AT  BANGOR, 
JULY  2O,    1869. 


Craftsmen,  listen  to  my  sayings  : 
Welcome,  welcome  Hugh  De  Payens, 

From  old  Massachusetts  Bay, 
To  our  climes  where  Boreas  bloweth, 
Where  the  sturdy  pine-tree  groweth, 

Welcome  to  our  shores  to-day. 

From  your  land,  with  age  so  hoary, 
Land  of  pilgrim,  song  and  story, 

From  your  living  streets  and  marts, 
From  your  sacred  soil  of  Warren, 
Welcome  to  our  cliffs,  though  barren, 

Welcome  to  our  homes  and  hearts. 

Welcome  as  the  old  Crusader, 
From  the  Palestine  invader 

Bringing  back  the  saber  scar, 
'Mid  the  songs  and  feasts  and  dances, 
And  the  flash  of  virgin  glances, 

Making  sweet  the  fruits  of  war. 


IOS  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Gallant  members  of  our  order 

Who  have  crossed  the  Cyprian  border, 

Join  us  in  a  song  to-day. 
With  a  curse  (and  not  a  lament) 
For  a  Philip  and  a  Clement. 

And  a  tear  for  De  Molay. 

Banish  now  each  cankering  sorrow, 

Banish  each  fear  of  to-morrow- 
While  we  gather  round  our  feast ; 

While  the  thought  of  rank  we  smother, 

Welcome  here  each  "Serving  Brother," 

Welcome  "Knight"  and  welcome  "Priest."* 

Welcome  here  each  sworn  defender 
Of  the  helpless  virgin  tender. 

And  the  ancient  Calvary  cross  ; 
Bear  it  like  our  great  Exemplar. 
Bear  it,  patiently,  each  Templar, 

Though  the  end  be  gain  or  loss. 

When  the  full  earth  path  we  travel, 
And  the  click  of  Death's  dark  gavel 

Falls  upon  the  leaden  ear, 
May  we  meet  the  Prince  of  Princes 
Shouting  "in  hoc  signo  vz'nces," 

In  some  new  celestial  sphere. 

*Three  classes  of  the  "Order  of  the  Temple"  in  the  12th  Century,  viz  :— "Serv 
ing  Brothers,"  "Knights"  and  "Priests." 


•>r 


ST.    JOHN    AND    DE    MOLAY    COMMANDERIES.  109 


A  WELCOME 

TO  "ST.  JOHN"  "UNION  DE  MOLAY"  COMMANDERIES 

OF  NEW  BRUNSWICK,  AT  THE  HALL  OF  ST.  JOHN'S 

COMMANDERY,  BANGOR,  JUNE  23,  1874. 


Knights  "St.  John"  and  "De  Molay," 
Here's  a  Welcome  warm  to'-day. 

Welcome  to  our  teeming  marts, 
To  our  halls  and  feasts  and  hearts, 

With  a  pride  and  not  a  shame 
'  Sing  we  of  the  Templar's  fame. 

Through  the  past  of  fire  and  flood, 
Through  the  gory  scenes  of  blood  ; 

'Mid  the  monarch's  toppling  thrones, 
And  the  mouldering  of  their  bones  ; 

'Mid  the  mercy-craving  cries, 
As  some  weak  1'epublic  dies  ; 

'Mid  the  prison  vault  and  chain, 
Through  each  worldly  loss  or  gain  : 

As  a  true  and  loyal  brother 
We  have  stood  by  one  another  ; 


IIO  POEMS    BY   DAVID    BARKER. 

Kept  the  oath  that  you  and'I 
Swore  'mid  scenes  of  mystery; 

Scenes  that  our  Craftsmen  saw 
Listening  to  Mosaic  law 

Since  the  tragic  hour  when  He 
Drained  the  cup  at  Calvary, 

When  each  Templar  breathed  his  name, 
And  the  hour  for  trial  came, 

Counting  earthly  things  but  dross, 
We  have  borne  aloft  the  cross. 

Happy  hearts  and  lengthened  days 
Knights  "St.  John"  and  "De  Molays" 

Safe  return  to  child  and  wife, 
Peaceful  ebbing  out  of  life. 

TO    ST.   JOHN    COMMANDERY,    BANGOR. 

Craftsmen,  ere  we  leave  these  walls, 
And  these  consecrated  halls, 

Let  each  Templar  in  his  heart 
Yitld  some  sacred  place  apart, 

And  with  impulse,  pure  and  kind, 
Keep  the  name  of  John  H.  Lynde. 


COURTING   A   MASON'S    DAUGHTER.  Ill 


COURTING  A  MASON'S  DAUGHTER. 


In  my  earlier  years — 

(And  the  thought  brings  tears, 

For  horrible  'tis  to  say,) 
I  was  false  as  the  pit 
To  each  girl  that  I  met, 

Till  meeting  with  Caroline  Ney. 

Each  time  that  I  strode 
To  her  father's  abode 

The  neighbors  were  struck  with  dismay  ; 
At  morning  and  even 
A  prayer  went  to  heaven 

For  the  innocent  Caroline  Ney. 

The  old  matrons  winked 
And  the  old  maids  blinked 

And  tuned  up  a  sorrowful  lay, 
And  nodded  the  head 
While  they  "gravely  said 

"He'll  ruin  that  Caroline  Ney  !" 


112  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

The  young  country  "Squire" 
In  his  dreams  would  perspire, 

In  counting  his  bountiful  pay 
For  conning  the  laws 
And  pleading  the  cause 

Of  beautiful  Caroline  Ney. 

The  old  village  Priest 
Not  doubting  the  least 

The  gossips  who  threaded  the  way, 
Bid  the  father  beware 
Of  the  terrible  snare 

I  was  setting  for  Caroline  Ney. 

But  the  father  cared  not 
For  the  idle  report 

Which  haunted  him  every  day. 
For  the  old  man  knew 
I  should  ever  be  true 

To  the  innocent  Caroline  Ney. 

For  1  whispered  a  word 
Which  the  old  man  heard, 

'Twas  a  magic  word,  though  simple, 
'Twas  a  word  which  we  caught 
On  a  sacred  spot 

Just  west  of  King  Solomon's  Temple. 


% 


1L.         

FAITH,    HOPE,    CHARITY. 


FAITH,  HOPE,  CHARITY. 


Distrust  not  every  form  without, 

Than  live  through  life  such  living  death, 
In  the  betraying  fiend  of  Doubt 

Have  Faith. 

Though  through  a  blind-man's-buff  we're  led, 

Or  though  in  dusky  paths  we  grope, 
In  a  blest  something,  just  ahead, 

Have  Hope. 

The  treacherous  blocks  we  may  not  see 

O'er  which  our  stumbling  brothers  fall, 
So  then  have  God-like  Charity 

For  all. 

With  these — the  three — we  may  be  blest, 

And  leave  behind  us  when  we  go, 
Around  Life's  sunset  in  the  west, 

A  glow. 

Then  onward  press,  though  for  the  grave, 

And  calmly  meet  the  closing  strife, 
Death  is  the  only  proof  we  have 

Of  life. 


«I4  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 


GIVE  THEM  BREAD  AND  NOT  A  STONE. 


First  dry  that  orphan's  tears, 
And  hush  that  orphan's  cries, 

Then  pile  up,  if  ye  will, 
»Your  marble  to  the  skies. 

But,  Craftsmen,  spare  that  fund, 
Part  earnings  of  the  dead, 

A  pittance  laid  aside 

To  buy  their  orphans  bread. 

Touch  not  a  single  dime, 
But  let  that  fund  alone — 

'Tis  mocking  God  and  man 
To  barter  it  for  stone. 


'Tis  better,  better  far, 

No  monument  should  rise 
To  tell  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  any  hero  lies, 
\ 


GIVE    THEM    BREAD    AND    NOT   A   STONE 

Than  that  one  orphan  child 
Should  pine  for  want  of  bread, 

Or  gold  be  squandered  off 
By  which  that  child  is  fed. 

First  dry  that  orphan's  tears, 
And  hush  that  orphan's  cries, 

Then  pile  up,   if  ye'will, 
Your  marble  to  the  skies. 


[At  a  meeting  of  the  Grand  Lodge  of  Maine  in  1851,  a  resolution  was  intro 
duced  authorizing  the  appropriation  of  a  certain  amount  of  the  Lodge  Fund 
for  the  purchase  of  a  block  for  the  Washington  monument.  The  lion.  Comp. 
Ezra  B.  French,  of  Damariscotta,  opposed  the  passage  of  the  resolution  in  a 
very  eloquent  speech.  In  the  course  of  his  remarks  he  said:  {'When  the  orphan 
children  of  our  dead  brethren  throng  around  us  destitute  and  tearful  and  ask  for 
bread,  will  ye  give  them  a  stone?"] 


Il6  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


JOHN  WARNER'S  NOT  DEAD.* 


Why  mourn  you — the  Craft?  for  John  Warner's  not  dead. 

Though  his  body  lies  pulseless  and  still, 
That  missile  which  forced  its  fierce  way  through  the  head 

No  real  John  Warner  could  kill. 

John  Warner's  not  dead,  though  the  casket  is  dumb, 

But  has  gone  on  a  mission  of  love, 
With  his  Compass  and  Square,  with  his  Level  and  Plumb, 

To  his  work  in  the  Grand  Lodge  above. 

John  Warner's  not  dead,  but  will  often  return. 

And  oft  in  our  Lodge  will  appear, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  which  lie  in  the  urn 

Will  whisper  the  Word  in  our  ear. 

John  Warner's  not  dead — by  each  hope  in  my  breast 
I  would  swear  on  this  spot  where  I  stand, 

That  since  the  last  sun  sank  in  silence  to  rest 
I  have  felt  the  Strong  Grip  from  his  hand. 

*John  Warner,  of  Kenduskeag,  a  member  of  Pacific  Lodge,  Exeter  Me.,  No. 
W.  and  of  the  2nd  Maine  Regiment,  was  accidentally  shot  in  camp,  at  Hall's 
Hill,  Va.,  Feb.  24,  1862,  and  was  buried  with  Masonic  honors  at  Kenduskeag, 
March  1,  1862. 


V 


WASHINGTON'S  INITIATION.  n 


7f 


LINES 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE    lOOth     ANNIVERSARY     OF    WASHING 
TON'S    INITIATION    INTO    FREDERICKSBURG  LODGE. 


Ho,  worthy  brother  Craftsmen,  all 
Throughout  our  wide  domain, 

Up,  up  in  living,  countless  throngs, 
Put  Lambskin  on  again. 

From  California's  golden  hills 

Off  by  Pacific's  side, 
To  farthest  beetling  cliff  which  stands 

As  guard  o'er  Fundy's  tide  ; 

From  wild  Atlantic's  hungry  waves 
Which  gnaw  our  rock-bound  shore, 

To  where  Niagara's  seething  floods 
Send  forth  their  deaf 'ning  roar  ; 

Come  to  the  Temple,  Brethren,  come, 

With  Mason's  armor  on, 
To  deeper  carve  upon  our  hearts 

The  name  of  Washington. 


Il8  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BAHKKR. 

Ye  spirits  of  our  chieftain's  band, 

If  liberty  is  given 
By  Him  who  sits  within  the  "East" 

Of  the  Grand  Lodge  in  heaven, 

To  members  there  within  those  halls 
To  "pass  the  outer  door," 

Oh,  leave  for  once  yon  blissful  realms, 
Be  with  us,  we  implore. 

Inspect  our  work,  reprove  our  faults, 
Inspire  our  hearts  with  love, 

And  teach  all  Craftsmen  how  to  find 
That  better  Lodge  above. 


MY   LAST    REQUEST.  119 


MY  LAST  REQUEST. 


Brethren  of  our  mystic  order, 

Bound  together  by  a  tie, 
Olden,  sacred  and  enduring, 

Come  and  see  a  Craftsman  die. 

Watch  like  angels  round  my  pillow, 
Till  the  ransomed  spirit  flies 

To  its  Excellent  Grand  Master, 
In  His  lodge  above  the  skies. 

Oft  we've  met  upon  the  Level, 
Let  us  part  upon  the  Square — 

Perfect  Ashlers  in  the  Temple, 
May  we  meet  together  there. 

Let  no  stranger's  hand  entomb  me 

Underneath  the  tufted  sod, 
None  except  a  brother  Mason 

Should  consign  my  dust  to  God. 

Heave  no  formal  sigh  of  sorrow 

O'er  the  ashes  of  the  dead, 
Only  plant  the  priceless  symbol 

Freshly  blooming  at  my  head. 

When  death's  gavel  sound  shall  call  you 

Off  from  Labor  unto  rest, 
May  you,  Craftsmen,  find  Refreshment 

In  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 


1 2O  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


ODE. 


T 


Ho,  worthy  Craftsmen,  all, 
Up  cheerily  to  your  toil 

While  strength  is  given. 
Strike  boldly  for  the  right, 
Drive  error  from  your  sight, 
Grasp  virtue  with  your  might 

And  trust  in  heaven. 

By  Trowel,  Plumb  and  Square, 
By  watchfulness  and  prayer 

Our  temple  rose. 
And  while  the  mystic  Three, 
While  Faith,  Hope,  Charity 
Shall  Mason's  motto  be, 

W7e  fear  no  foes. 

Fight  with  the  arms  of  Love, 
Press  for  the  Lodge  above. 

Never  despair. 
Our  work  is  ju^st  begun, 
Toil  till  your  task  is  done, 
Speed  till  the  goal  is  won, 

The  prize  is  there. 


ODE.  121 


When  blood  shall  cease  to  flow, 
When  sickness,  care  and  woe 

Are  felt  no  more, 
When  Slander's  tongue  we  hush, 
When  Crime's  huge  form  we  crush, 
When  Right  on  Wrong  shall  rush 

And  overpower ; 

When  orphans  shed  no  tears, 
When  widows  have  no  fears. 

When  Want's  unknown, 
When  foemen  foeman  greet, 
When  lambs  and  lions  meet, 
Our  mission  is  complete, 

Our  task  is  done. 


123  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  MASON'S  FAREWELL. 


While  far,  far  away  from  my  native  land, 

To  feel  the  warm  "grip"  from  a  Craftsman's  hand, 

And  to  hear  the  '"'"word"  and  to  see  the  "sign" 

Will  strangely  quicken  this  pulse  of  mine. 

For  I  know  full  well  that  a  friend  is  near 

To  whisper  a  word  in  th'  "attentive  ear" 
And  to  walk  " 'bare-foot"  'neath  a  winter's  sky 
To  aid  a  Brother  of  the  '"•mystic  tie" 

CHORUS. — We've  met  on  the  "Level" 

We'll  part  on  the  "Square" 
For  prized  as  the  sunlight 
My  Brothers,  you  are. 

'Tis  a  kind  farewell  1  must  quickly  say, 

For  the  cares  of  life  bid  me  haste  away  ; 

But  I  leave  my  heart  and  a  tear-drop,  too, 

As  a  pledge  that  I'm  ever  a  Mason  true, 

And  will  toil  with  the  Craft  till  I  yield  my  breath 

To  a  "  Gavel-blow"  from  the  hand  of  Death. 

'Tis  a  long  farewell  I  must  quickly  speak 

While  the  scalding  tears  course  down  my  cheek. 

CHORUS. — God  bless  you  my  Brothers — 

It  pains  me  to  part, 
You're  dear  as  the  life-drops 
Which  visit  my  heart. 

Farewell ! 


1^ 

THE    MASON'S    DEATH    AND    BURIAL.  123 


THE  MASON'S  DEATH  AND  BURIAL. 


The  old  church  bell  struck  a  startling  note 

And  sent  forth  a  solemn  knelling, 
While  every  peal  from  its  brazen  throat 

Of  a  sundered  tie  was  telling. 

And  soon  I  learnd  from  a  Craftsman's  woe, 

And  the  summons  hastily  spoken, 
That  a  brother  was  passed  from  the  lodge  below, 

That  a  link  in  our  chain  was  broken. 


With  a  quivering  lip  and  a  glistening  tear, 
Each  Craftsman  speedily  hurried 

To  see  that  the  cold,  pale  sleeper  there 
In  an  ancient  form  was  buried. 


We  laid  him  down  in  his  lonely  tomb, 
Our  hearts  o'ercharged  with  sorrow, 

But  saw  through  the  mystic  sprig  in  bloom 
The  gleam  of  a  brighter  to-morrow. 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


The  sickening  sound  of  the  'falling  sod 
Which  covered  our  brother's  coffin, 

Was  lost  in  the  wails  that  rose  to  God 
From  the  widowed  wife  and  orphan. 

Ah,  little  they  dreamed,  in  that  darksome  hour, 
When  the  bitter  tears  were  gushing, 

And  fell  despair,  with  a  tyrant's  power, 
The  stricken  heart  was  crushing 

Of  a  pledge  we  breathed  to  our  brother  at  rest, 

Who  lies  in  his  narrow  coffin, 
A  balm  that  shall  soothe  the  troubled  breast 

Of  that  widowed  wife  and  orphan. 


THE    SIGN   OF    DISTRESS.  125 


THE  SIGN  OF  DISTRESS. 


'Twas  a  wild  dreary  night  in  the  cheerless  December, 
'Twas  a  night  only  lit  by  a  meteor's  gleam  ; 

'Twas  the  night  of  that  night,  I  distinctly  remember, 
That  my  soul  journeyed  forth  on  the  wings  of  a  dream. 

That  dream  found  me  happy,  by  tried  friends  surrounded. 
Enjoying  with  rapture  the  comforts  of  wealth, 

My  cup  overflowing  with  blessings  unbounded, 

My  heart  fully  charged  from  the  fountains  of  health. 

I 

That  dream  left  me  wretched — by  friendship  forsaken, 
Dejected,  despairing,  and  wrapped  in  dismay, 

By  poverty,  sickness  and  sorrow  o'ertaken, 
To  every  temptation  and  passion  a  prey. 

In  frenzy,  the  wine-cup  I  instantly  quaffed  at, 
And  habit  and  time  made  me  quafF  to  excess, 

But  heated  by  wine,  like  a  madman,  I  laughed  at 
The  thought  of  e'er  giving  a  Sign  of  Distress. 


126  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

But  wine  sank  me  lower,  by  lying  pretences, 
It  tattered  my  raiment  and  furrowed  my  face, 

It  palsied  my  sinews  and  pilfered  my  senses, 
And  forced  me  to  proffer  a  Sign  of  Distress. 

I  reeled  to  a  chapel  where  churchmen  were  kneeling, 
And  asking  their  Saviour  poor  sinners  to  bless, 

My  claims  I  presented  —  the  door  of  that  chapel 
Was  slammed  in  my  face  at  the  Sign  of  Distress. 

I  strolled  to  the  priest,  to  the  servant  of  heaven, 
And  sued  for  relief  with  a  wild  eagerness  ; 

He  prayed  that  my  sins  might  at  last  be  forgiven, 
And  thought  he  had  answered  my  Sign  of  Distress. 

I  staggered  at  last  to  the  home  of  my  mother, 
Believing  my  prayers  would  meet  with  success, 

But  father  and  mother,  and  sister  and  brother 
Disowned  me  and  taunted  my  Sign  of  Distress. 

I  lay  down  to  die,  as  a  stranger  drew  nigh  me, 
A  spotless  white  lambskin  adorning  his  dress, 

My  eye  caught  the  emblem,  and  ere  he  passed  by  me, 
I  gave,  as  before,  the  sad  Sign  of  Distress. 

With  God-like  emotions  that  messenger  hastens 
To  grasp  me,  and  whisper,  ''my  brother  I  bless 

The  hour  of  my  life  when  I  learned  of  the  Masons 
To  give  and  to  answer  your  Sign  of  Distress." 

Let  a  Sign  of  Distress  by  a  Craftsman  be  given, 
And  though  priceless  to  me  is  eternity's  bliss, 

May  my  name  never  enter  the  records  of  heaven 
Should  /fail  to  acknowlede  that  Sin  of  Distress. 


V 


THE   TEMPLARS.  127 


THE  TEMPLARS. 


DEDICATED    TO    THE    MEMBERS     OF   ST.   JOHN  S    ENCAMP 
MENT,    RANCOR,    MAINE. 


Who  aid  the  widows  with  their  mites 
And  guard  the  helpless  virgin's  rights? 
A  band  of  old  and  valiant  Knights, 

The  Templars. 

To  save  a  friend  who  walks  around 

With  blood-stained  feet  on  frozen  ground? 

If  any  such  are  ever  found 

They're  Templars. 

Who  shield  the  Christians  as  they  kneel, 
And  wall  them  in  with  burnished  steel, 
And  guard  them  well  thro'  woe  and  weal? 

The  Templars. 

What  men  are  those,  despite  of  scars, 
Who,  facing  flashing  scimetars, 
Defend  the  Cross  in  Holy  Wars? 

The  Templars. 


128  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

When  Knights  are  called  from  k' labor"  here, 
Who  throng  around  the  sable  bier, 
And  drop  the  warm,  fraternal  tear? 

The  Templars. 

God  of  our  Craft,  enable  me 
A  faithful,  worthy  Knight  to  be, 
And  bring  me  home,  at  last,  to  Thee 

A  Templar. 


4F 


TO    KOSSUTH.  129 


TO  KOSSUTH. 


Immortal  man,  I  pray  forgive 

A  bard  unknown  to  fame. 
Who  'tempts  to  write  with  trembling  hand 

Thy  world-wide,  magic  name. 

But,  hearing  brother  Craftsmen  say 

Thy  tongue  of  living  fire 
Can  speak  in  whispered  tones  a  word 

You  caught  on  Mount  Moriah, 

• 
I've  dared  to  raise  my  feeble  pen 

A  Magyar  chief  to  greet, 
Remembering  Masons  can  and  will 
Upon  the  Level  meet. 

Hurl  cannon,  musket,  grape  and  ball 

The  cragged  "cliffs"  among, 
Toss  sword  and  scabbard  to  the  winds, 

The  best  sword  is  thy  tongue. 


130  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Stand  !  tell  the  bloody  Austrian, 

And  tell  the  Russian  Beat- 
That  nations,  like  a  fellow-man. 
Should  "act  upon  the  Square." 


And  warn  them  that  the  time  may  come, 

And  speedily.  I  trust, 
When  Vengeance  with  a  "Gavel-blow" 

Will  smite  them  to  .the  dust. 


And  bid  them  look  to  Lexington, 
And  gaze  on  Bunker's  height, 

Where  Freedom  raised  her  arm  at  last 
And  battled  for  the  right. 


And  tell  them  Freedom  fought  it  through 

And  conquered,  hilt  to  hilt. 
But  not  until  the  richest  blood 

From  Britain's  Isle  was  spilt. 


And  point  them  back  to  by-gone  years, 

To  sainted  days  of  yore, 
When  God's  oppressed,  through  seething  floods, 

Escaped  from  Pharaoh's  power. 


TO    KOSSUTH. 


And  tell  them,  Craftsmen,  God  will  yet 
Your  people's  wrongs  redress, 

And  answer  in  an  "ancient  form" 
Their  sad  "Sign  of  Distress." 

Speak  mystic  words,  give  sacred  signs, 

Seek  all  the  means  you  can 
To  spare  the  blood  which  war  will  drain 

From  out  thy  fellow-man. 


If  mystic  words  nor  signs  will  do, 
Take  sword  in  hand  once  more, 

Hunt  Russian  from  thy  father-land, 
Drive  Austrian  from  thy  door. 


If  aid  is  needed  raise  the  shout 
'  From  mountain-top  and  glen, 
In  every  clime  where  freedom  breathes 
A  horde  of  warrinsr  men 


Will  wildly  start  to  hear  the  cry, 
Cross  desert,  heath  and  wave, 

To  strike  the  chains  from  Hungary's  limbs 
Or  fill  a  warrior's  grave. 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


TO  T.  D.   WILLARD,  OF  N.  Y. 


I  will  not  breathe  upon  you,  man, 
From  Flattery's  hollow  lungs, 

Nor  utter  breathless,  lying  words, 
Which  drop  from  lying  tongues. 


Full  many  a  day  we've  marked  your  course, 

And  watched  you  from  afar, 
As  mariner  on  drifting  wreck 

Would  watch  the  polar  star. 


And  you  have  earned  an  honored  name, 

And  living  one,  we  trow — 
No  laurel  bathed  in  human  gore 

Decks  your  Masonic  brow. 

We  saw  you  sit  within  the  East 

And  raise  the  stalwart  arm, 
Heard  Gavel's  click,  and  heard  you  ask 

"  The  cause  of  the  alarm;" 


V 


TO   J.    D.    WILLARD,    OF    X.    V 


'33 


And  heard  you  rush  from  door  to  door 

Around  the  ancient  Dome. 
And  quickly  fly  from  nether  floor 

Into  the  Holy  Room  ; 

Bid  'Prentice,  Craftsmen,  Masters,  all, 
Their  useless  bickering  cease, 

And  saw  you  wave  above  the  storm 
The  olive-branch  of  Peace. 

The  war  is  o'er — your  Lambskin,  too. 

Is  free  from  blood  and  stain — 
Your  name  is  cherished  by  the  Craft 

Among  the  "pines  of  Maine.'' 

Health  to  you,  Craftsman,  is  my  prayer — 

Long  may  you  live  to  see 
Which  Brother  in  your  ranks' "can  work" 

•'And  which  can  best  agree." 


134 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


TRY  THE  SQUARE. 


Is  a  Brother  oft'  the  track  ? 

Try  the  Square. 
Try  it  round  on  every  side, 
Nothing  draws  a  Craftsman  back 

Like  the  Square  when  well  applied  ; 
Try  the  Square. 

Is  he  crooked — is  he  frail? 

Try  the  Square. 
Try  it  early — try  it  late. 
When  all  other  efforts  fail, 

Try  the  Square  to  make  him  straight, 
Try  the  Square. 

Does  he  still  persist  in  wrong? 

Try  the  Square. 

Loves  he  darkness  more  than  light? 
Try  it  through — try  it  long, 

Try  the  Square  to  make  him  right, 
Try  the  Square. 

Fails  the  Square  to  bring  him  to? 

Try  the  Square. 
Be  not  sparing  of  the  pains 
While  there's  such  a  work  to  do, 
WThile  a  crook  or  knot  remains 
Try  the  Square. 


MEETING    OK    NORTH  KKX    AND    SOUTHERN    MASONS      135 


WRITTEN  FOR  THE  PROPOSED  MEETING 

OF    NORTHERN    AND    SOUTHERN    MASONS    IN    MASS. 


Craftsmen,  craving  kindly  greeting, 
Doff  your  blue  and  gray, 

Let  us  hold  one  cordial  meeting 
On  the  Square,  to-day. 

Whether  coming  from  our  regions 
Where  the  pine-tree  grows — 

Whether  coming  from  your  legions 
Where  the  orange  blows  ; 

From  plebeians  or  from  princes, 

Owning  gold  or  dross, 
Sing  we  "/«  hoc  signo  vinces" 

Marching  'round  the  Cross. 


If  war's  thundering  roar  and  rattle 
Haunt  our  memories  still, 

Let  them  come  from  that  old  battle 
Fought  on  Bunker's  hill ; 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Let  each  blackened  corpse  of  passion 

In  its  casements  rot ; 
Plant  no  mystic  sprig  Acacian 

E'er  to  mark  the  spot. 

Let  us  bury  feuds  forever 

Deep  in  common  graves  ; 
Let  us  quaff  for  now  or  never, 

From  Lethean  waves. 

When  we  cross  the  final  ferry 

Claiming  earth  no  more  ; 
When  we  step  from  out  the  wherry 

On  that  distant  shore, 

We  will  strike  one  harp  and  tymbal 

At  the  master's  calls  ; 
We  will  use  one  word  and  symbol 

In  the  mystic  halls. 


JxL 


V 


DIED: 

AT  EXETER,    (MAINE)   EMMA,    DAUGHTER  OF  FRANCIS  W. 
AND  SARAH  A.   HIJ.L,  AGED   14  YEARS. 


We  have  laid  aside  your  casket 

Peacefully  to  rest, 
With  that  simple  wreath  of  flowers 

Blushing  on  the  breast ; 

While  your  mates  with  tones  of  music 

'Round  the  casket  stand, 
Cheering  on  the  trembling  spirit 

To  the  Morning  Land. 

For  this  pleasing,  painful  trouble, 

For  this  tearful  task, 
Simple  are  the  terms  of  payment 

Is  the  boon  we  ask  ; 

From  your  home  which  love  inherits 

O'er  this  vale  of  tears. 
With  your  choir  of  kindred  spirits 

In  those  happier  spheres, 

On  some  beauteous  Summer  evening:, 

O  7 

Whe»i  the  world  is  still, 
Send  us  back  those  tones  of  music, 
Angel  Emma  Hill. 


140  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


KEEP  TO  THE  RIGHT. 


An  hour  ago  a  bridge  I  nearecl 

Where  rival  roads  invite  ; 
With  threatening  words  a  sign  appeared 

And  said,  "Keep  to  the  right." 

I  marked  the  threat,  and  onward  dashed. 

Left  sign  and  bridge  behind. 
When  quick  this  thought,  unbidden,  flashed 

Like  lightning  through  my.  mind  : 

There  are  two  roads  on  which  we  go 

To  other  worlds  than  this, — 
The  one  leads  down  to  endless  woe, 

The  other  up  to  bliss. 

Across  a  bridge  these  roads  both  lead, 
O'er  Jordan's  heaving  flood  ;  ' 

A  sign  stands  out  which  all  may  read, 
The  letters  traced  in  blood. 

Methought  I  heard  :   "Take  not  the  one — 
Its  end  is  veiled  in  night.  * 

Inspect  the  sign,  then  travel  on. 
But  mind  "Keep  to  the  right !" 


LAYING  OK  THE  CORNER  STONE.  141 


LAYING  OF  THE  CORNER  STONE 

TRINITY    CHURCH,    EXETER. 


Let  your  mitred  Bishop  stand 
By  this  upturned  yielding  sod, 

And  with  consecrated  hand 
Lay  your  corner  stone  to  God. 

Then  with  skillful  builder's  care 
Rear  aloft  your  sacred  dome, 

Raise  your  steeple  high  in  air 
Pointing  to  a  spirit  home. 

Let  no  bitter,  burning  brawls 
Foully  nursed  by  blended  zeal 

Ever  echo  round  our  walls — 
Fatal  as  the  cannon's  peal. 

To  your  robed  and  tutored  Priest 
Acting  here  his  Rector's  part, 

Let  me  hold  some  thoughts  at  least, 
Gushing  warmly  from  my  heart. 


142  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Whether  pleasure  come  or  pain, 
.  Whether  worldly  gain  or  loss, 
When  the  crucible  you  drain 
Give  us  gold  refined  from  dross. 

With  a  scholar's  loyal  lore 

And  a  heart  imbued  with  love, 

Ever  guard  your  chapel  door 
As  they  guard  the  gates  above. 

Though  your  armor  bids  you  face 

All  the  elements  of  strife. 
It  will  elevate  your  race 

To  a  higher  plain  of  life. 

Preach  the  everlasting  word 

Free  from  innovated  taints- 
Preach  the  Christ  that  Peter  heard 
As  he  journeyed  from  the  Saints. 

By  the  help  of  Him  who  died 
Aided  by  redemption's  plan, 

Bridge  the  chasm  deep  and  wide 

That  has  vavvned  'twixt  God  and  man. 


PRAYEK.  143 


PRAYER. 

_.._ 

A  matchless  telegraphic  wire 
To  every  saint  is  freely  given, 

O'er  which  each  prayer,  the  heart's  desire, 
Is  quickly  sent  from  earth  to  heaven. 

There  is  a  bank  beneath  God's  throne 
Where  Christians'  choicest  treasures  are 

Before  deposits  can  be  drawn 

The  draft  must  be  indorsed  by  Prayer. 

There  is  a  well  where  Faith  must  drink, 
And  Prayer  that  well  descends  and  dips 

For  Faith,  who  stands  upon  the  brink. 
And  holds  the  goblet  to  her  lips. 

Humanity,  so  prone  to  err, 

When  violating  heaven's  laws. 

Engages  Prayer  as  Barrister, 
Who  freely  advocates  her  cause. 

Secure  by  lock  and  bolt  and  bai 
ls  yonder  mansion  in  the  skies, 

And  nothing  but  the  Key  of  Prayer 
Can  ope  those  gates  of  paradise. 

' 


144 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  COVERED  BRIDGE. 


Tell  the  fainting  soul  in  the  weary  form 
There's  a  world  of  the  purest  bliss 

That  is  linked  as  that  soul  and  form  are  linked 
By  a  covered  bridge  with  this. 


Yet  to  reach  that  realm  on. the  other  shore 
We  must  pass  through  a  transient  gloom, 

And  must  walk  unseen,  unhelped  and  alone 
Through  that  covered  bridge — the  tomb. 


X 


THE    COVERED    BRIDGE.  145 

But  we  all  pass  over  on  equal  terms, 

For  the  universal  toll 
Is  the  outer  garb  which  the  hand  of  God 

Has  flung  around  the  soul. 

Though  the  eye  is  dim  and  the  bridge  is]dark, 

And  the  river  it  spans  is  wide, 
Yet  faith  points  through  to  a  shining  mount 

That  looms  on  the  other  side. 

To  enable  our  feet,  in  the  next  day's  march. 

To  climb  up  that  golden  ridge, 
We  must  all  lie  down  for  a  one  night's  rest 

Inside  of  the  covered  bridge. 


19 


146  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  PALE  BOATMAN. 


In  that  cold  and  ancient  wherry, 
By  that  thronged,  though  fearful  ferry, 
O'er  that  bold  and  boisterous  river. 
See  that  Boatman,  bending  ever. 


He  has  toiled  for  every  nation 
Since  the  birth-da v  of  creation. 


When  old  Eve,  our  primal  mother 
Wiped  the  death-damp  from  Cain's  brother, 
Then  that  Boatman  took  that  wherry, 
And  first  crossed  that  fearful  ferry  ; 

Looked  he  stern  and  pale  beside  it. 
At  that  first  time  that  he  tried  it. 


MORTALS . 

You  and  I  must  go  in 

That  same  boat  which  he  is  rowing  ! 


THE  ATHEIST'S  LAST  LOOK.  147 


THE  ATHEIST'S  "LAST  LOOK." 


The  Atheist's  child  in  its  coffin  slept, 

In  the  village  chapel's  nook, 
Ere  the  time  when  the  stricken  father  said, 
"  'Tis  the  last  look!" 

He  never  heeded  the  soothing  balm 

Which  dropped  from  the  holy  book, 
But  only  thought  of  the  time  he  must  say, 
'"Tis  the  last  look!" 


The  lid  of  the  coffin  was  slowly  raised, 

When  the  crimson  his  face  forsook, 
For  he  knew  that  the  words  must  quickly  come, 
'"Tis  the  last  look!" 

He  tottered  along  to  the  coffin's  side, 
And  his  child's  cold  hand  he  took, 
And  uttered  a  shriek  which  pierced  the  heart, 
'"Tis  the  last  look!" 


148  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

And  I  saw  a  tear  in  that  Atheist's  eye, 

And  I  saw  that  a  Deist  shook 
As  he  uttered  those  thrilling  words  once  more, 
"  'Tis  the  last  look!" 

Methought  if  he  hoped  as  a  Christian  hoped. 

And  walked  by  the  light  of  God's  book, 
He  never  would  murmur  those  words  again, 
"  'Tis  the  last  look!" 


THOUGHTS    AT    A    FUNERAL. 


'49 


THOUGHTS  AT  A  FUNERAL. 


My  memory  holds  one  thing  intact, 

That  he,  who  lies  so  low, 
Did  me  a  generous,  kindly  act 

In  the  long  years  ago. 

Since  then,  the  teachings  of  the  brain, 

Or  feelings  of  the  heart, 
Have  held  for  each  a  different  reign, 

And  kept  our  paths  apart. 

But  now  amid  death's  awful  night, 

With  tapers  burning  dim, 
I  hold  my  screen  to  catch  the  light, 

And  not  the  shades  from  him. 


I5O  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


WPIEN,  WHERE,  AND  HOW  SHALL  I  DIE. 


When  shall  I  die? 
It  may  be,  perchance,  to-morrow. 
Ere  a  larger,  newer  sorrow 
Comes  around  my  soul  to  borrow 

Half  the  bliss  it  saves  ; 
It  may  be  when  locks  are  bleaching, 
When  life's  lengthened  shadows  teachin°- 

o  & 

That  my  feet  are  swiftly  reaching 

J  J 

Near  a  place  for  graves. 


Where  shall  I  die? 
It  may  be  with  tearless  stranger, 
It  may  be  'mid  toil  and  danger, 
It  may  be  in  hut  or  manger 

Far  from  friends  removed  ; 
It  may  be  when  friends  are  near  me. 
Breathing  kindly  words  to  cheer  me — 
Few,  who  neither  scorn  nor  fear  me. 

Friends  mv  heart  has  proved. 


% 


WHEN,    WHEUE,    AM)    HOW    SHALL    I    DIE.  I  ^  I 


How  shall  I  die? 
It  may  be  when  doubts  assail  me, 
When  my  trust  in  God  shall  fail  me, 
While  a  horde  of  phantoms  hail  me 

From  a  land  of  gloom  ; 
It  may  be  when  hope  attends  me, 
When  a  world's  Redeemer  sends  me 
Living,  dying  faith,  that  lends  me 

Peace  beyond  the  tomb. 

Thou  Great  Architect  of  Power, 
Though  my  sky  of  life  must  lower, 
Aid  me  in  death's  awful  hour, 

Save  me  from  despair  ; 
When  I  cross  the  stormy  river, 
Be  my  bark,  my  pilot,  ever, 
Leave  me,  God  of  mercy,  never, — 

This  is  all  my  prayer. 


V 


\ 
X 


1 


ALL  AT  HOME. 


Drive  every  care  and  pain  the  farthest  distance, 

For  we,  the  children  ten, 
And  they,  the  two  who  blessed  us  with  existence, 

Are  all  at  home  again. 

Say  not  that  three  are  dead  and  gone  forever, 

Talk  not  to  me  of  gloom, 
Tell  not  of  Jordan's  cold  and  cheerless  river, 

And  brood  not  o'er  the  tomb. 

We  all  are  here,  and  God  has  not  bereft  us  ; 

Then  every  grief  assuage; 
They  have  not  gone  far  oft',  but  only  left  us 

Like  actors  on  the  stage, 

And  stepped  aside  behind  the  sable  curtain 

Which  briefly  drops  between 
The  nine  and  three,  and  busied  now  in  dressing 

Just  for  another  scene. 

I  hear  their  footfalls  tinkling  all  around  us, 
I  see  their  shadowy  forms  now  flitting  by, 

I  feel  the  pressure  of  the  tie  that  bound  us, 
I  breathe  their  teachings  of  philosophy. 

Then  drive  each  care  and  pain  the  farthest  distance, 

For  we,  the  children  ten, 
And  they,  the  two  who  blessed  us  with  existence, 

Are  all  at  home  aain. 


156  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


ACT  YOURSELF. 


If  you  ever  act  at  all 

Act  yourself; 
Never  try  to  ape  another, 
Sink  or  swim,  or  rise  or  fall. 
Never  imitate,  but  rather 
Act  yourself. 

Brains  than  many  have  you  less, 

Act  yourself; 

Each  for  something  must  be  fit, 
Give  me  native  foolishness 

Rather  than  this  borrowed  wit — 
Act  yourself. 

i 

Elephants  should  never  dance, 
Act  yourself; 

Turkeys  should  not  try  to  hound, 
Women  should  not  wear  the  pants, 
Men  should  never  wear  the  gown — 
Act  vourself. 


ACT    YOURSELF.  157 


Forms  nor  fashions  never  heed, 
Act  yourself; 

Talk  of  fashions  for  a  man  ! 
Copies  never  did  succeed, 

And  mere  copies  never  can, — 
Act  yourself. 

Human  nature  wants  her  way, 

Act  yourself; 

Out  upon  the  tricks  of  art, 
When  you  have  a  word  to  say, 
When  you  take  the  simplest  part, 
Act  yourself. 


158  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


A  SHORT  STORY  WITH  A  MORAL. 


In  a  barn-yard  once  upon  the  ground 
A  negro  rolled,  and  kept  a  screeching, 

Because  he  thought  he  heard  the  sound 
Of  Rev.  Abel  Whitefield's  preaching. 

But  when  the  priest  the  door  had  reached 
The  negro  quickly  stopped  his  frothing. 

For  he  found  it  wasn't  Whitefield  preached, 
And  he  had  soiled  himself  for  nothing. 

A  moral  hangs  around  this  tale, 
And  one  deserving  approbation. 

And  not  a  single  soul  should  fail 
To  make  a  special  application. 


A  SOLACE  FOR  DARK  HOURS. 


A  SOLACE  FOR  DARK  HOURS. 


(WRITTEN  IN  DARK  HOURS.) 

A  purling  rill,  so  small  and  weak. 

Once  nearly  died  upon  its  way 
While  running  round  the  sea  to  seek 

Upon  a  summer's  day. 

But  soon  a  cloud  hung  o'er  that  rill. 

And  soon  came  down  an  autumn  rain. 
When  quick  it  danced  by  vale  and  hill, 

Restored  to  strength  again. 

So  pilgrim,  though  your  cloud  should  lower, 
Though  sorrow's  storm  should  come  at  length. 

Yet  God  may  clothe  that  storm  with  power 
To  give  your  spirit  strength. 

It  is  not  best  that  all  should  live 

'Mid  peaceful  gales,  'neath  sunny  skies. 

For  cloud  and  tempest  often  give 
Rich  blessings  in  disguise. 


l6o  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

The  seaman's  bark,  whose  bellied  sail 

The  storm  has  drenched  and  wind  has  filled, 

To  reach  its  destined  port  might  fail 
If  storm  and  wind  were  stilled. 


And  thus  our  barks  may  quicker  find, 
Though  long  of  angry  waves  the  sport, 

Though  dashed  ahead  by  storm  and  wind, 
A  final,  peaceful  port. 


The  smouldering  coals  that  underneath 
Some  cumbrous  pile  have  calmly  lain 

Might  fire  the  world  if  fanned  by  breath 
Of  passing  hurricane. 


And  brother,  now,  perhaps  thou  hast, 
Deep  buried  'neath  plebeian  name, 

A  fire,  which  touched  by  sorrow's  blast, 
May  kindle  into  flame. 


The  rust  that  creeps  o'er  warrior's  blade, 
When  Peace  can  sleep  without  alarmsT 

Is  seen  no  more  when  shout  is  made 
"To  arms  ! — the  foe  ! — to  arms" 


A    SOLACE    FOR    DARK    HOURS.  l6l 


And  thus  a  readiness  for  strife, 
For  action  in  this  world  of  fight, 

May  both  protect  the  spirit's  life 
And  keep  its  weapons  bright. 

How  oft  the  fearful  conflict  serves 
To  weaken  woe  and  strengthen  weal, 

By  hardening  up  the  softened  nerves 
As  smith-man  hardens  steel. 

Fear  not  the  man  of  wealth  and  birth 

Securely  resting  in  his  seat, 
But  sooner  him,  who,  dashed  to  earth, 

Is  rising  to  his  feet. 

From  straightened  bow  the  arrowed  spear 
By  warrior's  arm  is  never  sent ; 

The  danger  which  you  have  to  fear 
Comes  when  that  bow  is  bent. 


102  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


AT  THE  FRONT. 


Let  me  ask  in  a  manner  both  earnest  and  kind, 
Let  me  ask  of  the  throng  surging  on  from  behind, 
In  the  name  of  our  Christ,  if  you  can't  and  you  won't 
Be  a  little  less  rough  to  our  ranks  at  the  front. 
It  is  hard  that  they  send  the  pale,  weak  ones  ahead, 
Through  the  dark, chilly  march  thatleads  down  to  the  dead  ; 
But  perhaps  that  the  crowds  pressing  strong  on  us  here, 
Are  pushed  on  by  a  horde  farther  back  in  the  rear. 
Will  you  hold  while  I  read,  'mid  the  dusk,  what  they  say, 
On  the  mile-stones  that  rise  like  pale  ghosts  on  the  way? 

'Tis  the  usage  of  years  in  all  wars  of  the  tent, 

With  the  cannon  and  grape,  with  the  sword  and  the  gun 
That  the  wounded  and  weak  to  the  rear  shall  be  sent — 

Shall  be  sent  in  platoons  or  be  sent  one  by  one — 
While  the  front  is  made  up  of  the  brave  and  the  strong, 
Though  the  battle  be  short  or  the  battle  be  long. 
But  the  war  I  am  in — in  this  war  with  disease — 
With  a  fear  and  a  tremor  the  enemy  -sees. 
To  this  custom  of  ages  they  pay  no  regard, 
And  I  say  to  my  race  and  to  God,  it  is  hard, 
It  is  hard  that  they  send  us  pale,  weak  ones  ahead, 
Thro'  the  fight  and  the  march  that  leads  down  to  the  dead. 


BILLY    DEE.  163 


BILLY  DEE. 


Come,  dwellers  in  this  mortal  tent, 

Just  step  aside  and  see 
The  cold  and  fleshly  tenement 

Where  dwelt  poor  Billy  Dee. 

When  Billy's  house  grew  old  and  poor 
From  life's  rude  storms  and  wind. 

He  batteped  down  the  outer  door 
And  left  the  wreck  behind.  ' 

But  in  that  land  where  Billy  went, 
Each  kind  and  generous  brother 

Gave  something  from  his  spirit  tent 
To  build  him  up  another. 


164  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


-* 


DISCONNECTED  RHYMES. 


The  man,  around  whose  roof  the  burglar  lingers 

And  robs  him  of  his  pelf, 
Is  rich  compared  with  him  whose  thievish  ringers 

Can  madly  rob  himself. 

There  is  no  heart  so  full  of  earthly  sorrow, 

So  gorged  in  every  pore, 
But  that  such  heart  will  quickly  strive  to  borrow 

And  hold  one  trouble  more. 

There  is  no  stain,  so  deep  with  ruin  laden. 

No  blot  that  lives  so  long, 
As  that  which  rests  upon  the  trusting  maiden 

Who  does  herself  a  wrong. 

There  never  was  a  greater  curse — not  even 

That  old  and  fearful  strife 
Which  Beelzebub  raised  'mong  the  hosts  of  heaven, — 

Than  starting  wrong  in  life. 

How  strange,  when  Hope  has  proved  a  base  deceiver, 

We  blindly  hold  her  fast, 
And  never  for  a  single  moment  leave  her, 

Though  cheated  to  the  last. 


;  /r 

FANNIE    WARD.  165 


FANNIE  WARD. 


Full  oft  I  have  dreamed  of  the  hours,  Fannie  Ward, 

Full  oft  of  those  joy-laden  hours, 
We  strolled  from  your  cot  when  your  cheek  was  in  bloom 

And  sung  with  the  birds  in  the  bowers. 

And  well  I  remember  the  day,  Fannie  Ward. 

That  cheerless  and  sorrowful  day — 
My  spirit  was  fainting  and  bleeding  within 

When  bearing  you,  lifeless,  away 

This  world  has  been  dreary  since  then.  Fannie  Ward, 

Most  gloomy  and  dreary  since  then — 
And  sad  were  each  moment  except  for  the  hope 

To  meet  you  in  heaven  again. 

Do  you  ever  look  down  from  the  skies,  Fannie  Ward, 
From  your  own  happy  home  in  the  skies. 

To  note  the  wild  throbs  of  my  sorrowing  heart 
And  count  the  tear-drops  in  my  eyes? 


& 


1 66 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Oh,  grant  me  but  this,  only  this,  Fannie  Ward, 

Oh,  grant  me,  my  lost  one,  but  this  : 
Restrain  me  when  tempted  to  swerve  from  the  path 

Which  leads  to  your  haven  of  bliss. 

That  vow  which  I  breathed  as  you  died,  Fannie  Ward, 

That  vow,  in  your  ear,  as  you  died, 
Is  fresh  on  my  heart,  as  when  kneeling  I  pledged 

To  make  none  but  Fannie  mv  bride. 


EARLY    RECOLLECTIONS. 


l67 


Old  Stevens'  Mill-site  on  Kenduskeag  stream  at  East  Exeter,  being  the  first 
mill  in  town,  and  btiiltby  Levi  Stevens  in  1813. 


EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS. 


I'm  sitting  alone  in  my  office,  dear  Lew., 

Both  writing  and  singing  my  lays, 
I'm  laughing  and  crying,  as  memory  runs  back 

To  the  time  of  our  boyhood  days. 

Though  lawyer  you  are,  do  you  mind  it,  dear  Lew. 

The  cottage  where  first  we  saw  light, 
Which  father  so  carefully  chinked  up  with  moss 

To  keep  all  the  crevices  tight  ? 


l68  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

D'ye  mind  it,  your  lubberly  form,  my  dear  Lew., 
Your  eyes  ever  laughing  through  tears. 

Your  ball  and  your  skates,  and  your  trundling  hoop, 
The  bliss  of  vour  earlier  years? 


D'ye  mind  it,  the  times  I  have  switched  you,  dear  Lew. , 
When  " Mother  /"  or  some  such  a  shield 

Was  the  word  that  instinctively  burst  from  your  lips. 
While  /took  to  the  woods  or  the  field? 


D'ye  mind  it,  the  road  with  the  gateway,  dear  Lew., 

That  led  down  to  Stevens'  mill ; 
The  spot  where  old  Patrick  the  porcupine  slew, 

Near  the  "little  great  rock"  on  the  hill? 


D'ye  mind  it,  our  mother's  red  cupboard,  dear  Lew., 
Where  nut-cakes  and  bannocks  were  kept ; 

The  old  trundle-bed  that  was  pulled  out  on  trucks, 
Where  we  have  so  peacefully  slept? 


At  picnic  and  tavern  and  jam.  my  dear  Lew., 

I've  feasted  quite  often,  since  then, 
But  all  of  such  feasts  I  would  give  to  the  dogs 

To  lunch  at  that  cupboard  again. 

x 


EARLY    RECOLLECTIONS.  169 


Since  then,  upon  mattress  and  sofa,  dear  Lew., 
Oft  times  I  have  pillowed  my  head, 

But,  ah,  I  have  never  yet  found  such  repose 
As  came  from  that  old  trundle-bed. 


Our  mother,  dear  Lew.,  though  decrepit  and  old, 
Has  baked  us  a  loaf,  now  and  then. 

To  see  if  by  practice  we  ever  could  find 
The  tastes  of  our  childhood  again. 


That  poor  mother's  labors.  I  fear,  were  in  vain, 

Our  efforts  were  powerless,  too, 
For  life's  bitter  emptings  have  tainted  those  loaves, 

And  poisoned  our  appetites.  Lew. 


D'ye  mind  it,  old  Hephzibah's  ferule,  dear  Lew., 
Which  taught  us  to  read  and  to  spell  ? 

The  fears  of  that  ferule  were  kin  to  the  fears 
I  now  entertain  of  a  hell. 


That  ferule  was  missing,  one  noon,  my  dear  Lew., 
While  Hephzibah  went  to  her  home, — 

Ase  Lombard — but  Asa  I  will  not  expose — 
For.  mind  it.  we  "greed  to  keep  mum. 


v^ 

17O  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

D'ye  mind  it,  our  terrible  punishment.  Lew.. 

That  sitting  with  Catherine  Russ  ; 
Our  peeping  thro'  fingers  when  prisoned  there,  too. 

To  see  who  were  giggling  at  us? 


'Tis  strange,  my  dear  Lew.,  how  that  habit  of  late 

Has  conquered  the  boyish  fear  ; 
Since  then  I  have  sat  a  whole  night  beside  Kate 

Without  even  shedding  one  tear  ! 


D'ye  mind  it,  the  place  where  we  teetered,  dear  Lew. 

The  fence  that  stood  over  the  run  ? 
Such  teetering,  Lew.,  was  an  innocent  sport. 

For  mind  it,  we  teetered  for  fun. 


Since  then  I  have  teetered  with  larger  sized  boys. 

But  always  have  teetered  for  pelf; 
I've  teetered  full  many  a  lad  from  the  plank. 

Rut  sometimes  been  teetered  myself. 


D'ye  mind  it,  the  dreadful  long  night  that  we  passed, 

The  night  we  divided  our  coin, 
The  ninepence  we  saved  for  the  muster,  dear  Lew., 

The  muster  that  came  in  the  morn? 


% 


KAKLV     RECOLLECTIONS. 


D'ye  mind  it,  old  Robinson's  husking,  dear  Lew., 
Where  all  drank  new  rum  from  a  jug ; 

Where  husking  commenced  with  a  jig  and  a  reel 
And  closed  with  a  kiss  and  a  huo-? 


I  now  am  a  rigid  teetotaller,  Lew.. 

And  stick  to  my  principles  snug, 
And  nothing  would  tempt  me  to  "liquor"  again 

Unless  'twere  old  Robinson's  jug  ! 


D'ye  mind  it,  how  anxious  you  were,  my  dear  Lew., 

To  have  the  good  haying-time  last 
One  season,  when  finding  a  bumble-bees'  nest 

In  every  rock-heap  that  you  passed? 


D'ye  mind  it.  the  day  of  all  days  in  our  youth, 

When  death  came  so  horrid  and  grim. 
And  brandished  his  scythe  till  he  clipped  the  last  thread 

Of  the  life  of  our  dog  we  called  "Prim?" 


D'ye  mind  it,  the  knoll  by  the  "beech-bars,"  dear  Lew. , 

Where  beech-nuts  so  many  we  got, 
And  lugged  in  our  caps  down  to  Huckins'  store 

To  barter  for  powder  and  shot? 


*' • 

v~ 

172  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 

Since  beech-nuts  grew  dull.    Lew.,  I've  tried   other 
schemes. 

And  now  am  in  business  that  pays : 
But  all  of  my  gains  I  would  toss  to  the  winds 

For  a  month  of  our  boyhood  days. 

For, mind  it, those  times  were  the  times  when  we  thought 

What  any  one  said  must  be  true  ; 
Since  then,  from  some  causes  I  need  not  explain, 

A  change  has  come  over  us.  Lew. 


If  days  like  the  days  I  am  talking  of,  Lew., 
Through  eternity's  rounds  could  be  given, 

As  true  as  my  Bible  I'd  not  give  a  fig 

For  a  pass  through  the  portals  of  heaven. 


HOPE    OK    lil.iss.  173 


HOPE  OF  BLISS. 


SIXTEEN    LINES. 

Build  barriers  high  and  wide  and  deep 

To  wall  your  castes  apart, 
Such  fortresses  can  never  keep 

The  heart  from  answering  heart. 

A  magic,  telegraphic  cord 

Extends  from  soul  to  soul, 
O'er  which  leap  burning  thoughtjand  word 

Despite  of  man's  control. 

The  king  with  crown  upon  his  head. 

The  beggar  at  his  gate. 
The  Christian  on  his  dying  bed, 

The  convict  at  his  grate, 

One  common  hope  together  share, 

A  boon  for  rich  and  poor, 
Each  to  that  hope  a  rightful  heir, 

A  hope  of  bliss  in  store. 


174  POEMS   BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


INFLUENCE  AND  RETRIBUTION. 


Ye  cannot  send  the  simplest  line 

Abroad  from  off  your  pen, 
But  ye  must  meet,  in  future  hour, 

That  very  line  again. 

The  slightest  word  ye  cannot  speak 

Within  a  mortal  ear. 
But  that  the  echo  of  such  word 

Ye  must  forever  hear. 

Ye  cannot  stride  one  single  step, 

While  journeying  here  below, 
But  that  some  brother  takes  your  path 

For  happiness  or  woe. 

Unholy  thoughts  ye  cannot  think, 

Though  never  once  expressed, 
But  that  some  demon  plucks  those  thoughts 

To  fill  another's  breast. 


/T 

INFLUENCE    AND    RETRIBUTION.  175 


Then  watch  your  pen  with  miser  care. 

And  let  its  labors  be 
A  fount  of  solace  to  the  soul 

And  not  of  misery. 

And  guard  your  lips,  nor  let  them  speak 

A  word  which  future  years 
Can  by  some  magic  process  change 

To  bitter,  burning  tears. 

And  mark  the  road  on  which  you  stand. 
And  note  your  footsteps  well. 

And  shun  that  broad,  frequented  track 
Which  leads  away  to  hell. 


And  check  your  vain,  unholy  thoughts. 

As  much  as  in  you  lies. 
Nor  let  them  rob  you  of  that  bliss 

Beyond  the  starry  skies. 


x 

176  POKMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


I  THINK  SO.  DON'T  YOU? 


That  girl  in  her  silks,  gadding  down  through  your  streets, 
And  prating  small  talk  with  each  fool  that  she  meets, 
Had  better  be  helping  her  poor  jaded  mother 
By  fixing  a  patch  on  the  pants  of  her  brother. 
I  think  so,  don't  you? 

That  fop  that  you  see  with  the  hair  on  his  lips, 
Who  sports  a  rattan  and  a  mint  julep  sips, 
Would  do  well  to  learn  there  are  thousand  worse  woes 
Than  hats  out  of  style  and  a  poor  suit  of  clothes. 
I  think  so,  don't  you? 

That  weak,  silly  man,  whom  his  neighbors  defame. 
Who  comes  into  court  to  retrieve  a  lost  name 
Will  find,  when  his  lawyer  is  taxing  the  cost, 
The  fees  are  worth  more  than  the  character  lost. 
I  think  so.  don't  you? 

I've  noted  some  matters  and  things  as  they  passed. 
And  tender  this  legal  opinion  at  last : 
'Tis  best  to  be  honest  and  always  content. 
And  keep  your  books  straight  for  a  last  settlement. 
I  think  so,  don't  you? 


LET    THEM    TALK. 


LET  THEM  TALK. 


Do  the  fools  around  you  prate? 

Let  them  talk. 

Shape  your  course  and  travel  through, 
Never  grumble  at  your  fate, 

Fools  have  nothing  else  to  do — 
Let  them  talk. 

Heed  not  leakings  at  the  rnouth, 
Let  them  talk. 

Think  and  act  the  best  you  can. 
Leaking  long  will  bring  a  drouth, 
While  you  do  your  duty,  man, 
Let  them  talk. 

Never  mind,  but  jog  along, 
Let  them  talk, 
Idle  talk  is  only  gas, 
Nothing  but  a  foolish  song 
Coming  from  a  human  ass, 
Let  them  talk. 

While  you  have  an  honest  heart, 
Let  them  talk, 

While  you  utter  what  you  mean, 
While  you  act  the  manly  part, 

While  you  keep  your  conscience  clean, 
Let  them  talk. 


VI 


178  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


LIGHT. 


Brother,  are  you  faint  and  weary? 
Is  your  pathway  dark  and  dreary? 
Doubt,  nor  fear,  nor  falter  never, 
Let  this  be  your  watchword  ever, 

Light ! 

Better  days  may  soon  be  dawning, 
Darkest  hours  give  birth  to  morning  ; 
Yield  not  to  the  fiend  Despair, 
Keep  in  mind  old  Ajax's  prayer — 

"Light!" 

Ask  no  garb  from  Nemean  lion, 
But  with  heart  and  nerves  of  iron 
Fight  your  fight  in  fearless  manner 
With  this  motto  on  your  banner — 

Light ! 


- 


LIGHT. 


Light  to  stamp  each  sin  with  terror. 
Light  to  hunt  and  banish  error, 
Light  to  kill  or  weaken  sorrow, 
Light  to  gild  a  better  morrow — 
Light ! 

Light  to  make  oppression  falter, 
Light  from  truth's  own  burning  altar, 
Light  to  shine  on  hearts  benighted, 
Light  to  see  each  wrong  is  righted — 
Light ! 

While  one  intellect  is  clouded, 
While  one  soul  in  sin  is  shrouded, 
While  a  world  for  light  is  dying, 
Brother,  never  cease  your  crying — 
Light ! 


l8o  POBMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


LINES  TO  MY  DEAD  DOG. 


(SUPPOSED  TO  HAVE  BEEN    KILLED   BY  THE  TRAIN  AT 
WATERVJLLE.) 

You're  dead  in  form,  old  Pont,  but  not  in  spirit; 

Dead  is  a  heathen  term,  which  simply  shows 
That  we  for  garbs,  which  men  and  dogs  inherit, 

Have  swapped  our  earthly  clothes. 

Each  beast,  each  bird,  each  germ  of  vegetation 

Designed  for  mortal's  use, 
God's  spirit  power  shall,  in  the  new  creation, 

Hereafter  reproduce. 

The  buried  Indian  with  his  bow  and  arrow 

In  some  unlettered  mound. 
Thinking  to  meet  upon  the  coming  morrow 

In  some  new  hunting-ground, 

His  faithful  dog,  had  in  his  savage  dreaming 

A  faith  and  truth  sublime — 
A  blessed  scintillation  and  a  gleaming 

To  gild  the  close  of  time. 

\ 

We  part  awhile,  old  Pont,  but  not  forever, 
For  you  will  meet  me  with  the  Boatman  pale 

The  moment  that  he  leads  me  o'er  the  river 
And  wag  your  spirit  tail. 


LOVE    OF    LIFE.  l8t 


LOVE  OF  LIFE. 


I  have  no  longings  for  the  skies, 

No  vain  philosophy 
That  makes  me  wish  to  close  my  eyes 

And  lay  me  down  to  die. 

I'd  rather  live  through  countless  years, 
And  storms  and  troubles  brave, 

And  hourly  steep  my  eyes  in  tears, 
Than  slumber  in  the  grave. 

'Tis  not  the  toys  of  earth  I  love, 
'Tis  not  the  midnight  gloom 

Which  hangs  its  solemn  folds  above 
The  chambers  of  the  tomb  ; 

'Tis  not  the  common,  selfish  fear 
Of  losing  heaven's  bliss  ; 

'Tis  not  there  is  no  other  sphere 
To  be  preferred  to  this  : 

V 


l82  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

'Tis  not  the  agony  of  death. 

The  fearful,  closing  strife  ; 
'Tis  not  the  yielding  up  my  breath, 

Which  makes  me  covet  life. 

This  is  the  burthen  of  my  dread — 

Oh,  horrible  to  name  ! — 
That  loathsome  worms  must  yet  be  fed 

Upon  my  pulseless  frame. 


MAKE    YOUR    MARK.  183 


MAKE  YOUR  MARK. 


In  the  quarries  should  you  toil, 

Make  your  mark, 
Do  you  delve  upon  the  soil, 

Make  your  mark, 
In  whatever  path  you  go, 

In  whatever  place  you  stand, 
Moving  swift  or  moving  slow, 
With  a  firm  and  honest  hand 

Make  your  mark. 

Should  opponents  hedge  your  way, 

Make  your  mark, 
Work  by  night  or  work  by  day, 

Make  your  mark, 
Struggle  manfully  and  well, 

Let  no  obstacles  oppose, 
None  right-shielded  ever  fell 
By  the  weapons  of  his  foes, 

Make  your  mark. 


184  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

What  though  born  a  peasant's  son, 

Make  your  mark, 
Good  by  poor  men  can  be  done, 

Make  your  mark. 

Peasant's  garbs  may  warm  the  cold, 
Peasant's  words  may  calm  a  fear, 
Better  far  than  hoarding  gold 
Is  the  drying  of  a  tear, 

Make  your  mark. 


Life  is  fleeting  as  a  shade, 

Make  your  mark, 
Marks  of  some  kind  must  be  made, 

Make  your  mark, 
Make  it  while  the  arm  is  strong, 
In  the  golden  hours  of  youth, 
Never,  never  make  it  wrong, 

Make  it  with  the  stamp  of  truth, 
Make  your  mark. 


V 


MAKY    DEE.  185 


MARY  DEE. 


'Tis  well  that  poor  old  Mary  Dee 

Some  little  rest  has  found. 
For  she  has  washed  full  fifty  years 

For  all  the  folks  around. 

Her  soldier  husband,  "Billy  Dee," 

I  told  you  once,  you  know. 
Was  captured  on  Death's  skirmish  line 

Some  sixty  days  ago. 

In  any  hearing  up  above 

I  shall  be  glad  to  tell 
This  much,  or  more,  of  Mary  Dee  : 

She  did  her  washings  well. 

That  by  her  mild,  unlettered  tongue, 

No  fuss  was  ever  made. 
That  when  she  got  her  washings  through, 

She  smoked,  or  sung,  or  prayed. 

If  Mary  and  poor  Billy  meet 
Beyond  Death's  somber  screen. 

The  first  of  Mary's  care  will  be 
That  Billy's  robe  is  clean. 


l86  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


MARY  HALL. 


My  heart  with  grief  is  riven 
When  I  think  of  Mary  Hall, 

Though  she  dwells  in  yonder  heaven  r 
If  there  is  a  heaven  at  all ; 

Yes,  she  died  and  went  to  heaven, 
If  there  is  a  heaven  at  all. 


The  stars  refused  at  night 
To  shine  from  out  the  skies, 

When  the  mellow,  liquid  light 
Floated  forth  from  Mary's  eyes  ; 

When  she  lived,  such  liquid  light 
Floated  forth  from  Mary's  eyes. 

The  modest  flower  and  meek 
Always  felt  ashamed  to  bloom, 

For  the  tint  on  Mary's  cheek 
Ere  we  laid  her  in  the  tomb  ; 

Made  the  modest  flower  and  meek 
Always  feel  ashamed  to  bloom. 


MARY    HALL. 


The  angels  getting  lonely 
In  their  old  and  quiet  home, 

Sent  a  word  to  Alary,  only. 
Just  for  Mary  Hall  to  come  ; 

The  word  was,  "Mary,  only, 
None  but  Mary  Hall  to  come." 

The  courier  could  not  tarry 
Only  just  to  make  a  call. 

So  he  threw  a  garb  o'er  Mary — 
'Twas  a  dark  and  funeral  pall — 

And  he  fled  to  heaven  with  Mary, 
If  there  is  a  heaven  at  all. 


v- —* 


l88  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


MUNCH AUSEN'S  BUGLE. 


Who  has  not  heard  of — though  by  chance- 
(Each  dreamy  lad  and  maiden) 

The  bugle,  named  in  that  romance. 
Which  old  Munchausen  played  on  ? 


How  once  each  soul-inspiring  note. 

Each  tune  so  rare  and  chosen. 
One  day  within  its  brazen  throat 

Became  congealed  and  frozen. 

Munchausen,  then,  with  all  his  power. 

The  hidden  cause  not  knowing, 
Strove  hard  in  vain  for  many  an  hour 

To  set  those  tunes  agoing. 


When  quick  each  heart-inspiring  note, 
From  tunes  too  thick  to  number, 

Leaped  from  that  bugle's  brazen  throat. 
Woke  from  its  frozen  slumber. 


MUNCHAUSEN S    BUGLE. 


189 


How  many  a  true,  kind  heart  to-day 
Hath  strains  both  rare  and  chosen, 

That  lie  as  old  Munchausen's  lay, 
Congealed  and  chilled  and  frozen. 

Hearts  that  in  vain,  with  all  their  power. 

The  hidden  cause  not  knowing, 
Have  strove  through  many  a  weary  hour 

To  set  those  strains  asfoinsr. 


•. 


190  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


MY  CHILD'S  ORIGIN. 


One  night  as  old  Saint  Peter  slept, 
He  left  the  door  of  heaven  ajar, 

When  through  a  little  angel  crept, 
And  came  down  with  a  falling  star. 

One  summer  as  the  blessed  beams 

Of  morn  approached,  my  blushing  bride 

Awakened  from  some  pleasing  dreams 
And  found  that  angel  by  her  side. 

God  grant  but  this,  I  ask  no  more, 

That  when  he  leaves  this  world  of  sin, 

He'll  wing  his  way  for  that  blest  shore 
And  find  that  door  of  heaven  again. 


\ 


MY    DREAM. 


MY  DREAM. 


THE    NIGHT    AFTER    RECKIVING    A    VALENTINE. 


'Twas  in  the  present  month  of  February, 
The  day  I  have  forgot, — the  hour  was  nine. 

And  9  A.  M.,  too,  I  am  certain,  very, 

The  Eastern  stage  brought  me  a  Valentine. 

The  day  before  this  I  had  opened  many, — 

From  "Cupid's  Angel,"  "Ades,"  "Fides,"  "Ewer,' 

But  this  I  speak  of  came  from  "Glenwood  Jenny," 
Or  "Jenny  Glenwood"  was  her  signature. 

I  am  a  bachelor  and  mean  to  die  so, 

And  when  you  read  these  hasty  scribblings  o'er, 
You'll  find  one  reason  why  my  lips  should  lie  so 

In  swearing  constancy  to  twelve  or  more. 

The  pugilist,  who  finds  himself  afalling, 

Though  not  from  fair,  but  from  deceptive  blows, 

Should  learn  the  trade  before  a  second  sprawling, 
To  deal  false  passes  at  his  foeman's  nose. 


192 


POEMS    BY    DAVIL)    BARKER. 


So  in  my  early  years  the  worst  of  treason. 
From  one  i  loved,  taught  me  the  knavish  art, 

(Why  she  was  false  I  never  asked  a  reason) 
To  make  false  passes  at  a  woman's  heart. 

That  night,  and  when  the  clock  struck  twelve,  I  think, 
I  went  to  bed  the  pattern  of  sobriety, — 

With  all  my  faults  I've  never  ta'en  to  drink 
Since  first  I  joined  a  Temperance  Society. 

But  to  the  point : — I  say  I  went  to  bed, — 

This  wandering  trait  has  nearly  proved  my  ruin, 

I  have  some  failings  which  Lord  Byron  had 
When  writing  that  immortal  tale,  Don  Juan. 

Those  faults  were,  first,  unpardonable  digression, — 
A  rhyming  comet  Byron  seems  to  be  ; — 

And  next,  a  reckless  manner  of  expression, 
Which  poet  Holmes  calls  "groggy  brilliancy." 

I  say  I  went  to  bed  that  night  and  dreamed 
Of  things  in  sea,  in  sky,  and  heaven  many, 

But  from  my  dreamy  mass  of  dreams  there  gleamed 
One  brightest  dream  which  was  my  dream  of  Jenny. 

I  dreamed  of  longer  stockings  on  my  line, 

I  dreamed  of  Hymen's  cords  and  Hymen's  nets  ; 

I  dreamed  of  ringlets  locking  in  with  mine, — 
And,  strange  to  tell,  I  dreamed  of  pantalets. 


MY    DREAM.  193 


I  own  a  trotting  mare,  both  sleek  and  spry, — 
I  dreamed  I  put  her  in  my  trotting  carriage, 

And  went  like  blazing  rocket  through  the  sky 
To  offer  Jane  my  heart  and  hand  in  marriage. 

I  dreamed  we  had  not  met — and  such  the  fact — 
And  dreamed  'twas  tough  to  make  such  quick  proposal, 
I  dreamed  I  made  it  free  from  guile  or  tact, 
And  found  her  heart  was  at  her  own  disposal. 

I  dreamed  she  was  a  finely  chiselled  Miss. 

A  fairy  form,  of  every  fault  denuded, 
I  dreamed  I  then  proposed  a  parting  kiss 

To  bind  the  bargain  we  had  just  concluded. 

I  dreamed  my  offer  she  could  not  resist, 
I  thought  the  laws  of  physical  attraction 

Brought  lips  to  lips  when  each  the  other  kissed, 
Until  we  kissed  each  other  to  distraction. 


And  when  my  brain  grew  frantic  with  my  bliss, 

And  when  my  breast  outheaved  the  foaming  billow, 

I  found  'twas  all  a  dream,  and  that  my  kiss 
Had  been  implanted  on  my  mother's  pillow. 


* 

13 


/r 

194  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


MY  SISTER. 


How  calmly  she  sleeps  in  the  grave, 

Let  her  rest ; 
How  sadly  the  cypress  trees  wave 

O'er  her  breast. 

How  anxiously  gazed  I  with  fear 

At  her  bed  ; 
How  startling  the  sound  in  my  ear, 

"She  is  dead !" 

What  a  night  brooded  over  that  day, 

What  a  gloom, 
When  bearing  her  slowly  away 

To  the  tomb. 

Let  me  live  as  she  lived,  and  die 

As  she  died  ; 
Deny  me  not  this,  let  me  lie 

At  her  side. 

How  sweetly  we'll  rest  in  the  grave 

When  I  die, 
Though  nought  but  the  cypress  trees  wave 

Where  we  lie. 


NEVER    GET    READY    TO    DIE.  195 


NEVER  GET  READY  TO  DIE. 


Up,  up  and  give  fight  to  the  legions  of  wrong, 

Give  zealots  and  bigots  the  lie, 
Who  cantingly  tell  you,  with  faces  so  long, 

That  all  should  get  ready  to  die. 

This  world  is  too  full  of  your  dying  ones,  now, 

And  we  need  in  this  terrible  strife, 
Not  souls  that  are  pining  and  fainting,  I  trow, 

But  souls  that  have  vigor  and  life. 

While  one  lift  at  humanity's  wheels  you  can  give, 
Or  one  tear  you  can  wipe  from  the  eye, 

Get  ready,  my  brother,  keep  ready  to  live, 
But  never  get  ready  to  die. 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


NEVER  MIND. 


Should  Misfortune  dog  your  track 

Never  mind. 
Make  no  rain-bow  of  the  back, 

Never  mind. 
Turn  not  to  the  left  or  right, 

Quail  not  at  a  menaced  blow, 
Onward,  upward  in  your  might, 
Shout  this  motto  as  you  go  : 

•'Never  mind  !" 


Foes  may  frighten  friends  away, 

Never  mind. 
Fear  not  what  traducers  say, 

Never  mind. 
Single  handed  fight  it  through, 

Trust  not  in  the  countless  throng, 
One  a  legion  may  subdue 

With  that  legion  in  the  wrong, 

Never  mind. 


NEVER    MIND.  197 


Should  you  meet  with  pointless  slurs. 

Never  mind. 
Every  fool  by  instinct  errs, 

Never  mind. 
Let  spawns  scribble  if  they  will, 

Man  of  nerve  is  never  slain 
By  one's  firing  through  a  quill 
"Paper  bullets  of  the  brain," 

Never  mind. 

Each  shall  get  just  what  he  earns, 

Never  mind. 
Roads  are  long  which  have  no  turns, 

Never  mind. 
Yielding  up  the  other  cheek, 

Dropping  humbly  on  the  knees, 
Closing  lips  when  dared  to  speak, 
Will  not  do  in  times  like  these, 
Never  mind. 


198 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


OLD  RUFUS  RAY, 


OR    "WHEN    THE    PLACE    WAS    NEW. 


Tn  an  ancient  cottage  yonder 

Lives  old  Rufus  Ray, 
To  that  cottage  oft  I  wander 

At  the  close  of  day. 

Like  a  fixture  now  he  lingers 

On  his  bed  of  pain, 
Grief  has  filched  with  thievish  fingers 

Reason  from  his  brain. 

Passing  brief  the  words  he  utters, 

Senseless  words,  but  few, 
This,  and  only  this  he  mutters  : 

"When  the  place  was  new." 

Years  agone  he  loved  a  maiden, 

Blindly,  fondly,  true,- 
But  she  died  with  sorrow  laden 

"When  the  place  was  new." 


OLD    RUFUS    RAY. 


I99 


Grief  then  filched  with  thievish  fingers 

Reason  from  his  brain, 
Ever  since  this  being  lingers 

On  his  bed  of  pain. 

God  restore  that  long-lost  maiden 

Wretched  man,  to  you  ; 
Mav  you  meet  at  last  in  Aidenn 

Where  "the  place  is  new." 

In  a  lonely  cottage  yonder 

Breathes  one  Rufus  Ray, 
To  that  cottage  let  us  wander 

At  the  close  of  day. 

We  shall  find  he  ever  utters 

Senseless  words,  but  few  ; 
This,  and  only  this  he  mutters : 

"When  the  place  was  new." 


2OO  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


ONLY  SHE  AND  I. 


Since  our  last,  tho'  rapturous  meeting 

Years  have  flitted  by, 
Yet  I  mind  it,  how  we  met  there — 

Only  she  and  I. 

Quickly  after  that  last  meeting, 

Life's  embittered  storm 
Frightened  out  her  trernbling  spirit 

From  its  fragile  form. 

'Tis  no  matter — all  no  matter — 

In  God's  future  years 
We  shall  meet  again  together 

Somewhere  in  the  spheres. 

When  that  meeting — how  that  meeting, 

Where,  I  cannot  say — 
But  I'm  sure  of  such  a  meeting 

At  no  distant  day. 

Yes,  within  some  cozy  corner 

In  the  earth  or  sky, 
We  shall  hold  one  blessed  meeting — 

Only  she  and  I. 


ONE    WORLD    AT    A    TIME.  2OI 


ONE  WORLD  AT  A  TIME. 


I  doubt  not  that  God  has  created  some  sphere, 

Some  region  of  exquisite  bliss, 
More  glorious,  by  far,  than  we  journey  thro'  here, 

And  free  from  the  sorrows  of  this. 


But  mortals  are  dreaming,  while  plodding  along, 
Too  much  of  that  heavenly  clime  ; 

They'd-better  be  singing  this  practical  song — 
This  motto  :  One  world  at  a  time. 

To  God,  to  yourself,  to  your  fellow  be  just, 
To  the  winds  toss  your  creeds  and  your  sects, 

And,  leaving  this  world  with  a  confidence  trust 
To  the  chances  that  follow  the  next. 


V 


2O2  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


•PIOUS  LIKE  HELL." 


A  few  years  since  a  powerful  revival  of  religon  was  witnessed  at  Oldtown, 
Maine.  Among  the  hopeful  converts  was  an  Indian  of  the  Penobscot  tribe 
who,  soon  after  his  conversion,  attended  a  prayer-meeting  and  was  called  upon 
to  "tell  his  experience,"  Not  exactly  understanding  the  construction  of  the 
King's  English,  Peol  expressed  himself  as  follows :  "Oh  glory :  me  feel  pious 
like  hell."  That  incident  suggests  the  following  stanzas  : 

The  hand  of  religion  is  potent  to  save, 

Its  value  no  mortal  can  prize, 
It  leads  us  in  safety  clear  down  to  the  grave, 

Then  gives  us  a  pass  to  the  skies. 
But  since  the  grand  choice  in  the  garden  was  given, 

Since  Adam  from  Paradise  fell, 
Full  many  are  found  to  be  pious  like  heaven, 

"While  many  are  pious  like  hell." 


I  once  was  an  orphan  boy,  mortgaged  and  leased, 

And  served  without  hope  of  a  fee, 
For  one  who  was  lending  the  Lord  what  she  fleeced 

From  the  girl  in  the  kitchen  and  me. 
'Twas  a  day  or  two  since  that  I  gazed  on  the  face 

Of  her,  the  once  mademoiselle, 
And  thought,  tho'  she  bragged  of  abounding  in  grace, 

Of  Peol,  and  "pious  like  hell." 


PIOUS    LIKE    HELL. 


203 


But  tares  in  the  wheat  nor  the  counterfeit  coin 

Should  rob  us  no  night  of  our  rest, 
Let  this  be  our  motto  while  journeying  on  : 

God  orders  all  things  for  the  best. 
And  mind  it,  no  knowledge  to  mortal  is  given 

By  which  that  frail  mortal  can  tell, 
Except  by  the  fruits,  who  is  pious  like  heaven, 

Or  Peol-like,  '-pious  like  hell." 


204  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


PRAYERS  AND  KISSES. 


This  morn  I  saw  a  stern  man  kneel — 

One  of  the  holy  order — 
He  had  a  white  robe  round  him  wrapped, 

With  black  upon  its  border. 

Just  at  my  front  a  roguish  boy 

Sat  there,  among  the  many. 
With  laughing  eyes,  whose  name  I  learned 

Was  little  Murray  Dana. 

And,  at  my  left,  a  cherub  girl 
Wore  smiles  as  thick  as  spatter, 

While  little  Murray,  now  and  then, 
Was  throwing  kisses  at  her. 

Pray  on,  stern  man — God  give  you  light — 

To  you  the  task  is  given 
To  guide  our  stumbling  feet  aright 

And  lead  the  way  to  heaven. 

And  you,  my  boy,  keep  at  your  task 

Till  death's  cold  chains  have  bound  you, 

With  laughing  eyes  and  merry  heart 
Throw  kisses  all  around  you. 

For,  'mid  the  throng,  that,  at  the  last, 

The  gate  of  glory  misses, 
Some  may  be  found  upon  their  knees 

As  well  as  throwing  kisses. 


STOP    THIEF. 


STOP  THIEF. 


Not  only  him  who  gets  by  stealth 

From  banker's  safe  and  tradesman's  shop, 

A  fraction  of  his  neighbor's  wealth, 
For  there  are  other  thieves  to  stop. 
Stop  Thief! 

He  is  a  thief  who  holds  the  cup 

To  other's  lips  for  paltry  gain, 
Who  eats  a  brother's  life-blood  up, 

And  filches  reason  from  his  brain. 
Stop  Thief! 

He  is  a  thief  whose  robber  trade 
Is  in  the  rights  our  fathers  gave, 

Whose  gold  is  coined,  whose  bread  is  made 
From  sundered  heart-strings  of  the  Slave. 
Stop  Thief! 

He  is  a  thief,  the  pampered  priest, 

Who  with  God's  chart  and  compass  stands, 

But  runs  your  freighted  bark  at  last 
On  moral  rocks  or  moral  sands. 

Stop  Thief! 

He  is  the  prince  of  thieves  among, 
And  needs  in  hell  the  hottest  flame, 

Whose  lying  lips  and  slanderous  tongue 
Can  rob  another  of  a  name. 

Stop  Thief! 


206  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


' 


THE  BEVELLED  GRINDSTONE. 


Some  thirty  years  ago,  or  so, 
When  I  lived  with  my  mother, 

I  knew  a  man  whose  name  was  Joe, 
And  Simon,  his  half  brother. 


Now  Simon  was  a  whole-soul  man, 

Though  often  getting  mellow  ; 
But  Joe  was  made  on  a  different  plan — 

A  most  penurious  fellow. 

This  Joe — for  so  the  neighbors  say — 

Told  Simon,  his  half  brother, 
He  thought  it  might  be  made  to  pay 

To  run  a  grindstone  together. 

They  bought  the  stone,  when  Joe,  you  know, 

Just  ground  it  to  a  bevel ; 
For,  as  I  said  before,  this  Joe 

Was  meaner  than  the  devil. 


THE    BEVELLED    GRINDSTONE. 


207 


He  gave  the  left  side  of  the  stone 

To  Simon,  his  half  brother, 
And  run  the  right-hand  side  alone. 

While  Simon  run  the  other. 

When  neighbors  came  to  grind — now  mind, 

And  Joe — the  mean  one — finding 
They  had  no  coin  to  pay — they  say 
He  gave  them  Simon's  side  to  grind, 
Who  charged  no  fee  for  grinding. 

As  time  rolled  on,  they  say,  one  day 

That  Joe  came  in  a  frothing  ; 
For,  grinding  on  the  other  side, 
Old  Simon's  bevel  side  grew  wide, 

While  Joe's  run  off  to  nothing. 


MORAL. 

I  sing  to  each  earth-child  around. 

To  each  whose  "head  is  level :" 
When  piled  beneath  that  six-foot  mound, 

If  not  before,  you'll  surely  find 
'  Tis  just  as  well  to  let  folks  grind 

Upon  your  side  the  bevel. 


2O8  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  BLIND  GATEMAN. 


1  claim  the  legal  right  to  boast. 

For  sure  I  felt  a  pride 
When  I,  with  learn'd  Judge  Appleton 

Close  seated  at  my  side 
To-day,  around  your  city  walls 

Was  taking  such  a  ride. 

Around  your  classic  Lover's-leap, 

And  famous  old  High-head, 
Around  Mount  Hope,  where  many  a  tear 

Has  crystalized  the  dead, 
My  steed,  held  firm  by  bit  and  rein,, 

With  willing  footsteps  fled 

Around  full  many  a  beetling  crag, 

So  threatening  and  bold, 
And  many  a  weird  and  shattered  home 

Reared  in  the  days  of  old, 
And. many  a  towering,  lordly  roof 

That  hints  of  treasured  gold. 


xf 

THE    BLIND    GATEMAN.  209 


At  last  that  steed  with  hurrying  hoof 

Took  Judge  and  poet  o'er, 
And  halted  with  a  conscious  look 

At  Penury's  cold  door — 
Those  arid  lands  where  city  chiefs 

Have  garnered  up  their  poor. 

One  thing  I  swear  by  every  saint 

Who  dwells  above  the  skies — 
Believe  me,  now,  the  thing  is  true, 

We  found,  to  our  surprise, 
That  he  who  swung  the  gate  was  blind. 

Because  he  had  no  eyes  ! 

They  say  for  years  that  man  has  stood 

Within  that  self-same  place, 
And  swung  that  ponderous  pauper  gate 

With  the  same  measured  pace, 
And  gazed  with  that  strange,  blinded  stare, 

Into  each  passer's  face. 

I  trust  that  at  the  pearly  gate 

The  Judge  and  I  shall  find 
The  gateman  there  who  lets  us  in, 

Like  Paul  Demeritt — blind — 
For  sight  might  magnify  some  sin 

And  make  him  change  his  mind  ! 

* '—^ 

14 


210  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  BRADBURY  BOYS. 


I  know  how  people  talk  and  feel 

About  this  noise  and  fuss, 
This  meeting  here  to-day  between 

The  Bradbury  boys  and  us. 

How  time  whirls  on,  in  figuring  up 

We  find  this  fact  appears  : 
Since  last  we  met  these  Bradbury  boys 

'Tis  more  than  fifty  years. 

Perhaps  you  know  these  Bradbury  boys, 

If  not,  you  ought  to  know  ; 
This  tall,  gray  fellow  here  is  Cale. 

And  then  come  Ase  and  Joe. 

These  other  fellows  lubbering  round 

Are  all  our  boys,  you  see  ; 
Here's  Noah  and  Nat.  and  Dan.  and  Mark, 

And  also  Lew.  and  me. 


THE    BRADBURY    BOYS. 


21  I 


These  Bradbury  boys — one  left  his  law, 
And  one  his  grapes  and  corn, 

And  traveled  near  a  thousand  miles 
To  find  where  they  were  born. 


Look  !  here's  where  old  Joe  Bradbury  lived, 

The  place  that  Bradbury  tilled, 
And  there's  the  chopping  father  cleared 

The  year  that  he  was  killed. 


And  there's  where  Thomas  Townsend  "dwelt, 

Where,  on  his  leathern  seat, 
He  took  those  measures  year  by  year 

For  our  tired,  pattering  feet. 


Those  feet  have  trod  some  slippery  paths 

Since  death  one  day  so  grim 
Took  Townsend  from  his  kit  of  tools, 

And  then  his  breath  from  him. 


That  broken  clam-shell  skimmer  there. 
This  moment  found  by  Joe, 

His  mother  used  for  skimming  milk 
Some  sixty  years  ago. 


212  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Poor  Joe — but  then  my  muse  can  wait 

Until  your  cheeks  are  dry, 
Some  think  that  nought  but  loss  of  fees 

Can  make  a  lawyer  cry. 

That  wall — hold  on — Nat's  pigs  are  out — 

Good  gracious  what  a  fuss 
'Mid  pigs  and  tears  to  rhyme  about 

The  Bradbury  boys  and  us. 

Don't  ask — that  thought  has  bothered  me  ; — 
This  ho-ja  and  -where  and  when 

We  six  shall  meet  and  recognize 
Those  Bradbury  boys  again. 

Friends  of  life's  early  youth  accept 

This  humble  gift  of  mine, 
A  wreath  wrought  with  a  hurried  hand 

Around  this  pilgrim  shrine. 

However  faint  a  fickle  faith 

Some  future  bliss  insures, 
Amid  each  agony  of  doubt 

One  present  bliss  is  yours 

If  you  will  bear  to  western  homes 
Old  memories  fraught  with  joy, 

As  ^Eneas  bore  Anchises  through 
The  burning  gates  of  Troy. 


% 


V 


THE    BLADE    OF    CORN.  213 


THE  BLADE  OF  CORN. 


Died  at  Kxeter,  on  the  10th  of  June,  1852.  Elizabeth  Ellen,  daughter  of  Al 
bert  and  Julia  Morrison,  aged  4  years  and  10  months.  This  beautiful  and  prom 
laing  child  had,  just  before  her  last  sicknesb,  planted  a  kernel  of  corn  at  her  fath- 
•er's  door,  and  a  day  or  two  before  her  confinement  to  a  sick  room  its  tiny  blade 
appeared  above  the  surface  of  the  earth.  A  short  time  before  her  death  she  re 
quested  her  mother  to  watch  her  "blade  of  corn"  until  she  recovered.  That  ten  - 
•der  plant  was  her  only  idol  at  the  time. 

Yes,  loved  one,  hush  those  childish  fears. 

And  bid  thy  care  begone. 
And  dry  thy  flowing,  artless  tears 

About  thy  "blade  of  corn." 


For  at  the  hour  of  parting  dav. 

And  at  the  break  of  morn, 
A  mother's  feet  shall  feebly  stray 

Around  thy  "blade  of  corn" 

To  see  the  tender  plant  shoot  forth 
That  priceless  "blade  of  corn," 

To  watch  its  slow  but  steady  growth, 
When  thou.  my  child,  art  gone. 

That  "blade"  's  an  emblem  of  thv  form, 

Both  fleeting  as  our  breath  ; 
At  night  comes  frost  and  gathering  storm. 

At  morn  both  sleep  in  death. 


I 


214  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  DOVE. 


I  pined  for  something  pure  to  love, 
The  angels  caught  my  wish  on  high. 
And  sent  me  from  the  azure  sky 

A  pure  and  spotless  dove. 

The  angels  knew  its  tender  age — 
To  shield  it  well  from  earthly  harms 
They  sent  it  trembling  to  my  arms 

Within  a  tiny  cage. 

One  day  my  dove  while  dreaming  o'er, 
A  wintry  blast  came  in  its  rage, 
And  beat  upon  that  tiny  cage 

And  battered  down  its  door. 

The  dove,  despite  its  tender  age. 

Flew  out  and  sought  its  native  sky — 
It  knew  no  other  place  to  flv — 

And  left  me  with  its  cage. 

But.,oft  from  out  that  azure  sky 
My  angel  gift  comes  back  to  coo, 
As  though  it  fondly  tried  to  woo 

Me  to  its  nest  on  high. 


V 


THK   FOOLS   AIN'T    ALL   DEAD.  215 


'THE  FOOLS  AIN'T  ALL  DEAD." 


"The  fools  ain't  all  dead"  is  a  maxim  that's  sounded 
From  grog-shop  and  stable,  from  tavern  and  shed. 

And  truthfuller  adage  .was  never  propounded 

Than  this  modern  proverb,  "the  fools  ain't  all  dead. 

While  Virtue,  in  tatters,  is  shunned  and  neglected, 
And  wanders  an  outcast,  forlorn  and  distressed, 

While  Vice,  in  its  tinsel,  is  wooed  and  respected, 
Invited  and  flattered,  esteemed  and  caressed  ; 


While  Quackery  the  practice  of  Science  is  aping, 
Though  Science  goes  hungry  while  Quackery  is  fed. 

While  hundreds  and  thousands  are  greedily  gaping 
To  swallow  a  humbug,  "the  fools  ain't  all  dead." 


While  kinsman  with  kinsman,  or  neighbor  with  neighbor, 

For  merest  of  trifles  will  madly  dispute, 
And  squander  the  proceeds  of  twenty  years'  labor 

To  settle  the  quarrel  by  reference  or  suit : 


2l6  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


While  printers  depend  for  their  bread  on  their  patrons  ; 

While  ballots  are  sold  for  a  demagogue's  bow  ; 
While  damsels,  despite  of  advice  from  the  matrons. 

Will  barter  their  all  for  a  libertine's  vow  :  " 


While  striplings  imagine  that  leaving  the  tillage. 
Where  Nature  designed  them  as  fixtures  for  life. 

And  flocking,  unposted,  to  city  or  village 
Imbued  with  the  notions  of  Potiphar's  wife  ; 


That  they,  by  a  system  of  swelling  and  blowing. 

And  long  ere  the  hay-chaff'  has  worked  from  the  head, 
Can  fix  the  impression  they're  fellows  worth  knowing, 

'Tis  fair  to  presume  that  "the  fools  ain't  all  dead." 


When  Churchmen  will  argue  that  every  true  preacher 
Should  pound  out  his  sermons  by  stamping  and  blows  ; 

That  learning  disqualifies  man  for  a  teacher, 

And  gospel  's  not  pure  till  it  twangs  through  the  nose  ; 


While  women  conjecture  that  novels  before  them 
Will  stamp  them  forever  as  ladies  of  taste. 

That  man  cannot  fail  to  admire  and  adore  them 
For  smallness  of  feet  and  for  hornet^like  waist : 


XT 

THE    FOOLS    AIN'T    ALL    DEAD.  21  f 

While  fops  are  esteemed  for  the  starch  in  the  collar, 
And  bear's  oil 's  preferred  to  the  brains  in  the  head  ; 

While  merit's  outweighed  by  the  "almighty  dollar," 
'Tis  plain  to  be  seen  that  the  "fools  ain't  all  dead." 

"The  fools  ain't  all  dead,''  and  my  readers  will  know  it, 
For  he  who  can  hope  to  win  glory  or  bread 

By  leaving  his  law-books  and  turning  to  poet 
Illustrates  the  fact  that  the  "fools  ain't  all  dead." 


2l8  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 


THE  HUNCHBACK  BOY. 


While  some  are  singing  their  songs  of  grief, 

And  others  their  songs  of  joy, 
I  will  tune  my  harp  for  a  different  strain, 

And  will  sing  of  a  hunchback  boy. 

They  say  that  his  mother  now  sleeps  in  her  grave. 

And  his  father  is  helpless,  too, 
From  wounds  dealt  out  by  a  rebel  horde 

Because  he  was  dressed  in  blue. 

And  now  that  his  father  is  scarred  ami  poor. 

And  now  that  his  mother  is  dead, 
This  hunchback  boy  with  his  feeble  form 

Toils  on  for  his  scanty  bread. 

In  a  few  brief  years  my  name  may  die 
When  my  heart  and  my  brain  are  cold, 

And  the  weary  hand  that  writes  these  lines 
Is  wrapped  in  the  church-yard's  mould. 

But  then,  through  the  long  and  the  distant  years, 

If  the  world  to  itself  be  true, 
'Twill  remember  the  name  of  the  hunchback  boy 

And  the  father  who's  dressed  in  blue. 


THE  KNOW-NOTHINGS. 


"Behold!  we  know  not  anything." 

— TENNYSOM. 


This  world  is  full  of  Know-Nothings, 
The  cruising  sage  o'er  Wisdom's  sea 

Returns  at  length  and  only  brings 
The  tidings  of  uncertainty, 

We  do  not  know. 


Is  there  a  rose  for  every  thorn  ? 

Is  there  a  hope  for  every  fear? 
Shall  every  night  give  birth  to  morn  ? 

Is  there  a  smile  for  every  tear? 

We  do  not  know. 

Shall  we  not  meet  some  future  hour 

A  court  where  wrongs  may  be  redressed 

Or  shall  we  find  no  higher  power 
Than  that  we  feel  within  the  breast? 
We  do  not  know. 


THE    KNOW-NOTHINGS.  2 19 


22O  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

What  is  the  punishment  for  sin? 

The  recompense  for  moral  worth  ? 
Where  does  that  punishment  begin  ? 

And  is  that  recompense  from  earth  ? 
We  do  not  know. 

Is  there  a  light  above  this  gloom? 

Is  there  a  choice  of  weal  or  w  oe  ? 
A  consciousness  beyond  the  tomb?  . 

A  life  beyond  this  life  we  know? 

We  do  not  know. 

Is  there  a  world  of  quenchless  flame? 

Another,  too,  of  ceaseless  bliss? 
Can  any  prayer  the  lips  may  frame 

Affect  that  life  which  follows  this? 

We  do  not  know. 

From  killing  fears  is  there  no  arm 
To  lead  our  fainting  spirits  out ; 

Is  there  in  Gilead  no  balm 

To  soothe  the  agonies  of  doubt? 

We  do  not  know. 

When  doubts  and  fears  around  us  throng, 
And  when  in  blackest  night  we  grope, 

Oh  !  what  could  urge  our  feet  along 

Except  the  pledge  of  Faith  and  Hope  ? 
We  do  not  know. 


>T 

THE    LADIES     MAN.  221 


THE  "LADIES'  MAN." 


Who  is  a  '"Ladies'  Man?" — not  he, 
The  "dem  foine,"  art-begotten  fop 

Who  lives  through  life  a  devotee 
To  dancing  hall  and  tailor's  shop  ; 

Who  lacks  for  ballast,  not  for  sail. 

Whose  beard  around  the  place  he  chews 

Is  like  a  kink  on  Puppy's  tail, 
For  ornament  and  not  for  use. 

He  cannot  be  a  "Ladies'  Man," 

Who  dreams  that  for  a  world  of  gold 

The  love  of  woman  can  be  won, 
Or  virtue  can  be  bought  and  sold. 


Not  he  a  "Ladies'  Man,"  I  ween, 
Who  dares  assert  or  dares  expect 

That  trappings  can  be  made  to  screen 
The  poverty  of  intellect. 


% 


XT 

222  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKKR. 


He  is  of  "Ladies'  Man"  the  kind 

Who  lives  to  learn  and  learns  to  prize 

The  sterling  brilliancy  of  mind 
Beyond  the  brilliancy  of  eyes  ; 

Who  feels  that  purity  and  love. 

That  native  modesty  arid  taste. 
Are  gems  which  man  should  hold  above 

The  small  circumference  of  a  waist. 

Who  knows  that  all  the  toys  of  earth, 
The  pride  of  rank  and  power  of  might 

Are  always  tipped  by  moral  worth 

When  weighed  upon  the  scales  of  right. 

He  is  a  "Ladies'  Man" — the  best — 

Who,  though  he  toils  at  sledge  or  cart, 

Has  got  a  something  in  his  breast 
The  dictionary  calls  a  heart. 


THE    POET  S    INVITATION. 


223 


7 


THE  POET'S  INVITATION. 


If  I  have  found  upon  this  mortal  plain 

One  whose  full  heart  to  mine  an  echo  gives  : 
Who  notes  my  hope,  my  fear,  my  bliss,  my  pain. 
Come  where  a  poet  lives. 

Not  to  my  walls  where  justice  blushes  decked 

With  legal  quibbles  and  the  foolish  flaw, 
Where  the  best  gushings  of  the  soul  are  wrecked 

Among  the  mists  of  law  ; 
Not  to  my  curtained  room,  so  primly  cold, 
Filled  with  formalities  so  dull  and  drear. 
Whose  latticed^bars  to  chase  away  the  mould 
Are  opened  once  a  year  ; 

Not  to  my  room  where  the  grim  miser's  chest 

Sends  forth  its  creakings  from  its  iron  lid 
To  tell  some  heir,  when  life  escapes  my  breast, 

Where  ghostly  gains  are  hid  ; 
But  come  where  my  best  treasures  caper  round 

Upon  the  worn  and  on  the  dented  floor, 
Where  blessed,  tiny  hand-prints  may  be  found 
Upon  the  cupboard  door  ; 

Come  to  my  home,  where  every  trifle  tells. 

In  summing  up  the  ills  and  joys  of  life, 
Not  to  the  home  where  my  dear  lady  dwells. 
But  where  I  keep  my  wife. 


% 


224 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BAKKEK. 


THE  POOR  WOOD-HAULER. 


Do  you  think  of  the  forty  years  ago, 

When  you  and  I  were  smaller, 
And  the  cold,  dead  man  that  was  found  in  the  snow 

Whom  we'll  call  the  poor  wood-hauler? 

With  a  manly  heart  he  was  bartering  wood 
From  the  home  where  love  had  bound  him 

To  deal  with  an  honest  hand  the  food 
To  the  flock  that  cuddled  'round  him. 

When  that  star!'  we  leaned  upon  was  broke — 

Tn  that  awful  hour,  my  brother. 
We  had  nothing  left  to  lean  upon 

But  God  and  a  Roman  mother. 

But  that  mother's  form  is  trembling  now. 
Though  her  spirit  is  strong  as  ever, 

And  is  tottering  down  with  a  feeble  step 
To  the  brink  of  a  stormy  river. 

Hark !  I  hear  a  voice  o'er  the  river's  roar, 

'Tis  a  voice  that  seems  to  call  her, 
And  it  comes  from  that  man  on  the  misty  shore, 

Oh  !  I  see — 'tis  the  poor  wood-hauler. 


THE    PROFLIGATE    SON    TO    HIS    DYING    MOTHER.       225 


THE  PROFLIGATE  SON  TO  HIS  DYING 
MOTHER. 


I've  lingered  near  your  couch,  mother, 
And  watched  your  waning  breath, 

And  struggled  with  a  giant's  strength 
To  stay  the  hand  of  death. 

I  find  such  efforts  vain,  mother, 
And  now  since  we  must  part, 

One  moment  listen  to  the  words 
That  burn  within  my  heart. 

While  gazing  on  your  brow,  mother, 

With  bitter,  burning  tears, 
A  living  record  of  the  past, 

A  journal  of  the  years, 

Which  I  have  bartered  off,  mother, 

For  vanity  and  vice, 
By  unseen  hands  is  opened  wide 

Before  my  startled  eyes. 


226  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Within  that  frightful  book,  mother, 
But  one  bright  page  I  see — 

A  record  made  by  angel's  pen 
Of  early  infancy. 

I'll  read  no  other  page,  mother, 
'Twill  make  you  sad  and  wild 

To  hear  upon  those  sybil  leaves 
The  history  of  your  child. 

I've  passed  a  wretched  life,  mother, 

The  furrows  on  my  cheek 
Of  murdered  hours  and  wicked  deeds 

In  fearful  accents  speak. 

But  you  are  not  in  fault,  mother, 

Tour  duty  has  been  done, 
I  mind  the  prayers  you  breathed  to  heaven 

To  save  your  erring  son. 

Those  prayers  were  not  in  vain,  mother, 

For  hei'e  beside  you  now, 
I  humbly  kneel  before  my  God 

And  offer  up  a  vow  : 

If  he  will  hear  my  prayer,  mother, 

And  speak  my  sins  forgiven, 
My  feet  shall  ever  keep  the  path 
,  Which  leads  to  you  in  heaven. 


THE    SONG   OF    THE    OLD    BOYS    AND    GIRLS.  227 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  OLD  BOYS  AND  GIRLS.* 


We  have  met — though  some  bring  their  tottering  forms, 

While  others  are  hale  and  hearty, 
We  have  met  here  to-day — we  boys  and  girls — 

We  have  come  to  another  '•'•party ." 

We  were  here  in  the  ancient  "Blaisdell  totun" — 
We  were  here  with  the  "first  beginner  " 

When  the  owl  felt  at  home  from  the  Corinth  line 
To  the  line  of  the  now  Corinna. 

We  were  here  when  they  built  up  the  Stevens  Mills, 

And  long  before  Stevens  run  'em, 
When  the  mill-crank  came  on  the  old  horse,  "Tib" 

That  was  straddled  by  Thomas  Dunham. 

c 

When  the  good  old  dame  at  the  old  Hatch  house 
Sold  the  teamsters  tea  with  their  victuals, 

When  a  part  of  our  rum  came  from  "Taylor's  store," 
And  a  part  came  from  "Case  &  Little's." 


I 


228  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

When  we  all  drank  out  the  same  brown  jug, 
When  our  fish  came  so  cheap  by  the  "kentle" 

When  the  spare-rib  broiled  on  the  tough  tow  string 
That  was  hung  to  the  long  stone  mantle. 

Though  too  old  for  the  "jig"  and  the  "pigeon's  wing, 
And  too  old  for  the  "busk"  and  the  "ruffle" 

We  are  good  for  the  "reel"  and  the  "blind-man's 
And  are  good  for  the  "double  shuffle. 

Though  the  outer  boy  and  the  girl  have  failed, 

Yet  our  spirits  shall  falter  never  ; 
For  the  inner  boy  and  the  inner  girl 

Are  as  young  and  as  fresh  as  ever. 

Though  the  hill  we  are  tottering  down  is  steep, 

And  the  weather  now  looks  uncertain, 
We  are  peeping  o'er  to  a  better  shore 

Through  a  rent  in  a  sable  curtain. 


*The  following  citizens  of  Exeter,  who  were  among  the  first  settlers  of  the 
town,  dined  at  Mr.  Thomas  J.  Hill's,  March  4,  1864  :— 

Eben  Towlc,  aged    87 


Mrs.  Eben  Towle, 
MjTS.  Sam'l  Brown, 
Asa  Shaw, 
Mrs    Asa  Shaw, 
Josiah  Barker, 
Mrs.  Joaiah  Barker, 
Mrs.  Nath.  Barker, 


79 
83 
79 
70 
85 
73 
74 


Total.  630 


THE    TWO    PRISONERS.  229 


THE  TWO  PRISONERS. 


I've  somewhere  read,  or  heard,  or  dreamed, 

And  which  I  cannot  say, 
Of  a  strange  custom  practiced  long 

By  the  famed  Seneca  : — 

Whene'er  a  tender  maiden  dies, 

A  mourner  quickly  brings 
A  captured  hird  to  keep  encaged 

Till  some  sweet  song  he  sings  ; 

When  the  chained  bird  with  dulcet  tone, 

Borne  by  some  warrior  brave, 
Is  loosed  with  many  a  fond  caress 

Above  the  maiden's  grave, 

And  charged  with  many  a  message  there, 

From  the  rude  savage  band, 
To  bear  on  swiftest  wing  to  her 

In  the  bright  spirit  land. 

Perchance  my  chafing,  struggling  soul, 

Imprisoned  close  and  long, 
Is  kept  within  these  earthly  walls 

To  test  its  power  of  song. 

And  soon,  like  the  caged  Indian  bird 

Let  loose,  will  carry  o'er 
Some  message  to  the  loved  who  dwell 

Upon  God's  shining  shore. 


230  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  UNFINISHED  TASK. 


I  have  stood  by  the  unmarked,  lowly  tomb 
Of  the  blacksmith,  Hiram  Staples, 
Who  was  made  a  corse 
When  shoeing  a  horse — 

The  old  man — Vulcan  Staples. 
I  have  stood  'mid  the  gloom 
Of  a  Virgil's  tomb 

In  the  famous  land  of  Naples. 
And  the  dirt  was  the  same 
That  covered  the  frame 

Of  the  old  man — Hiram  Staples, 
As  the  dirt  that  I  found 
On  the  poet's  mound 

In  the  classic  land  of  Naples. 
One  went  'neath  the  sod, 
Ere  the  horse  was  shod, 

To  the  home  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
And  the  other  went  there, 
'Mid  his  dreams  so  rare 

On  his  visit  to  Megara. 

I  was  sorry  that  either  went  under  the  sod, 
Ere  the  rhymes  were  finished  or  the  horse  was  shod, 
But  we  all  pass  off  with  a  task  undone, 
Sudden  and  silent,  and  one  by  one. 

Like  the  old  man,  Hiram  Staples, 
Or  the  bard  who  died 
'Mid  his  fame  and  pride, 

In  the  beauteous  land  of  Naples. 
But  the  work  that  we  leave  unfinished  here 
We  will  finish  all  up  in  another  sphere. 


1L 

THE   TEACHINGS  OF    PHILOSOPHY.  23! 

THE  TEACHINGS  OF  PHILOSOPHY. 


What  matters  where  the  bar  may  be 
To  which  our  world  is  cited? 

Though  here  or  in  eternity 

Each  wrong  must  yet  be  righted; 

No  drop  of  blood  was  ever  spilt 

That  washes  out  another's  guilt. 

There  is  no  bankrupt-law  for  sin, 
Though  heretics  may  teach  it, 

No  limitation  act  steps  in, 

Though  Paul  himself  might  preach  it; 

For  ages,  though  the  time  's  delayed, 

Each  moral  debt  must  once  be  paid. 

The  felon  tried  and  doomed  to  die, 
Might  shuffle  oft"  his  sentence, 

And  claim  the  largest  liberty 
By  pleading  true  repentance  ; 

And  good  that  plea  and  righteous,  even, 

If  sin  could  ever  be  forgiven. 

-When  life  has  closed,  whoever  gains 
The  station  God  assigned  him, 

And  pays  his  debt  and  breaks  the  chains 
Which  Sin  has  forged  to  bind  him, 

Is  fitted  for  the  bliss  of  heaven, 

And  never  needs  to  be  forgiven. 


232 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


TO  "LEATHER  FRENCH."* 


You  have  haunted  the  dreams  of  my  sleep, 

Leather  French, 

You  have  troubled  me  often  and  long, 
And  so  now  to  give  rest  to  the  waves  of  my  soul 

Leather  French,  let  me  sing  you  a  song. 

I  suppose  that  the  cold  world  may  sneer, 

Leather  French, 

For  they've  done  it  too  often  before, 
When  the  innermost  spirit  has  snatched  up  its  harp 

Just  to  sing  o'er  the  grave  of  the  poor. 

Never  mind,  let  them  laugh,  let  them  sneer, 

Leather  French, 

We  will  not  be  disturbed  by  them  long, 
For  we'll  step  out  aside  from  the  battle  of  life 

While  I  question  and  sing  you  my  song. 

You  were  poor  when  you  lived  here  below, 

Leather  French, 

And  you  suffered  from  hunger  and  cold, 
And  'twas  well  you  escaped  from  the  storm  and  the  blast 

At  the  time  you  grew  weary  and  old. 


TO   LEATHER    FRENCH.  233 

Has  that  old  leather  garb  that  you  wore, 

Leather  French, 

That  you  wore  in  the  days  long  ago, 
Been  exchanged  for  the  robe  that  you  named  in  your 

prayer, 
For  a  robe  that  is  whiter  than  snow? 

And  that  dreary  old  hut  where  you  dwelt, 

Leather  French, 

That  old  hut  on  the  hurricane  lands, 
Was  it  bartered  by  you  at  the  passes  of  death 

For  a  house  not  erected  with  hands?. 

When  the  toys  that  I  love  become  stale, 

Leather  French, 

And  my  life's  fitful  fever  has  passed, 
Shall  I  safely  cross  over  the  Jordan  of  death. 

Shall  I  meet  you  in  heaven  at  last? 

Tell  me  true — tell  me  all — tell  me  now — 

Leather  French. 

For  the  tale  you  can  tell  me  is  worth 
More  to  me  than  the  wisdom,  the  pleasures,  the  fame 

'And  the  riches  and  honors  of  earth. 

Shall  I  meet  no  response  to  my  call, 

Leather  French, 

Tell  me  quick,  for  I  cannot  wait  long, 
For  I'm  summoned  again  to  the  battle  of  life — 

Leather  French — I  have  finished  my  song. 

*Stephen  Y.  French,  a  well  known  hermit,  called  "Leather  French,"  died  at 
the  alrnshouse  in  Exeter,  Me.,  March  8,  1838,  aged  about  80  years. 


234  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  SHEPHERD  AND  THE  LAMB. 


In  the  Scottish  hills  as  a  shepherd  strolled 

On  an  eve,  with  his  ancient  crook, 
He  found  a  lamb  that  was  chilled  and  young 

By  the  side  of  a  purling  brook. 

And  through  fear  that  the  lamb  might  sicken  and  die, 

Fi-om  its  mother's  side  might  roam. 
He  carried  it  up  with  a  tender  care 

To  a  fold  in  his  Highland  home. 

'Mid  the  dreary  night,  o'er  the  cragged  peaks, 
Through  the  winds  and  the  storms  and  the  cold, 

The  mother  followed  her  captured  lamb 
To  the  door  of  the  shepherd's  fold. 

Once  we  had  a  lamb  by  its  mother's  side, 

It  was  artless  and  pure  and  mild, 
'Twas  the  dearest  lamb  in  my  precious  flock, 

Oh,  the  pale,  little  blue-eyed  child. 

But  a  shepherd  came  when  the  sun  grew  low, 

By  a  path  that  has  long  been  trod, 
And  he  carried  our  lamb  through  the  mists  of  night 

To  his  fold  in  the  mount  of  God. 

With  a  teajful  eye  and  a  bleeding  heart 

We  must  bear  it  and  struggle  on, 
And  climb  that  mount  by  the  shepherd's  track 

To  the  fold  where  our  lamb  has  gone. 


A 

THE    UNDER    DOG    IN    THE    FIGHT.  235 


THE  UNDER  DOG  IN  THE  FIGHT. 


I  know  that  the  world — that  the  great  big  world — 

From  the  peasant  up  to  the  king, 
Has  a  different  tale  from  the  tale  I  tell, 

And  a  different  song  to  sing. 

But  for  me,  and  I  care  not  a  single  fig 

If  they  say  I  am  wrong  or  am  right, 
I  shall  always  go  in  for  the  weaker  dog, 

•For  the  under  dog  in  the  fight. 

I  know  that  the  world — that  the  great  big'world — 
,  Will  never  a  moment  stop 
To  see  which  dog  may  be  in  the  fault, 
But  will  shout  for  the  dog  on  top. 

But  for  me,  I  never  shall  pause  to  ask 

Which  dog  may  be  in  the  right, 
For  my  heart  will  beat,  while  it  beats  at  all, 

For  the  under  dog  in  the  fight. 

Perchance  what  I've  said,  I  had  better  not  said, 
Or,  'twere  better  I  had  said  it  incog., 

But  with  heart  and  with  glass  filled  chock  to  the  brim, 
Here  is  luck  to  the  bottom  dog. 


V 


236  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 


TO  "MOLL  MOLASSES."* 


You  say,  through  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears, 
The  Spirit  Power — the  Wise  and  Blessed  Giver 

Has  lengthened  out  your  life  a  hundred  years 
Upon  the  banks  of  old  Penobscot  river. 

.« 

You  say  in  childhood's  hours  you  used  to  trudge 
Around  the  "Point"  full  many  years  before  a 

Good  title  came  to  crazy,  rhyming  Budge — 
A  name  to  live  in  song  if  not  in  story. 

You  say  your  maiden  feet  once  used  to  range 

Around  your  cabin,  which  you  tell  me  stood  hard 

Upon  the  spot  where  stands  the  old  ^Exchange" — 
A  noted  tavern  kept  by  Abram  Woodard. 

You  say,  long  moons  ago,  your  sanup  found 
That  hunting  with  the  pale  face  was  a  burden, 

And  so  he  left  this  lower  hunting  ground 
And  found  a  better  on  the  banks  of  Jordan 


TO   MOLL   MOLASSES.  237 

Look,  Moll !  your  sanup's  coming  o'er  the  tide — 
I  see  him  from  his  light  canoe  a  landing — 

I  see  him  now  a  hurrying  to  your  side — 
I  see  him  in  our  very  presence  standing. 

He  says,  "  Tell  Moll,  my  wigwam  in  the  wood 

For  her  and  our  pappooses  ready  ever, — 
Tell  Moll  her  sanup  feel  so  very  good 

When  they  leave  earth  and  paddle  'cross  the  river  " 

I  write  these  rhymes,  poor  Moll,  for  you  to  sell — 
Go  sell  them  quick  to  any  saint  or  sinner — 

But  not  to  save  one  soul  from  heaven  or  hell, 
But  just  to  buy  your  weary  form  a  dinner. 

We  may  not  meet  again  upon  life's  shore, 
But  when  my  spirit  over  Jordan  passes, 

I'll  merely  look  for  one  that's  gone  before, 

And  then  will  look  for  you  old  '•  Moll  Molasses" 

*A  well-known  Squaw  of  the  Penobscot  tribe. 


238  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 


TO  S.  C.  WHO  SENT  ME  A  WITHERED  LEAF. 


Take  back  your  leaf  again, — 
Why  make  the  tear-drops  start? 

Why  plant  this  weary  pain 
Like  daggers  in  my  heart? 

Take  back  your  leaf  again, — 
Why  drain  my  drop  of  bliss? 

Why  madden  up  my  brain 
With  such  a  type  as  this? 

I  knew  our  joys  had  fled, 
I  knew  your  faith  was  brief, 

I  knew  my  love  was  dead, 
Dead  like  this  withered  leaf. 

Why  haunt  me  with  that  vow 
My  fickle  lips  have  spoke? 

Why  kill  my  spirit  now 

Because  one  oath  was  broke? 

That  leaf  I  now  return, — 
A  useful  gift — the  last — 

Girl,  take  the  leaf  and  learn 
One  lesson  from  the  past. 


% 


TO    SUE.  239 


TO  "SUE." 


If  girls  like  a  girl  I  am  dreaming  of,  Sue, 

For  ages  to  man  could  be  given, 
I  think  'twas  a  wasting  of  timber,  don't  you 

In  building  that  fabric  named  heaven? 

But  life's  so  uncertain  to  creatures  below,  - 
(At  least  to  all  creatures  called  human) 

That  oft  I  am  tempted  to  lecture  and  show 
'Twill  not  pay  to  Chase  for  a  woman. 

To-day  a  young  angel  in  wedlock  is  bound, 
A  creature  outpricing  the  diamond — 

To-morrow  old  Time  with  his  scythe  lurks  around 
And  sunders  the  heart-strings  of  Hymen. 

But  off  with  this  moaning  and  groaning,  dear  Sue, 
And  off  with  this  sighing  and  crying — 

If  fevers,  half  conquered,  attack  us  anew, 
We'll  bargain  and  hazard  this  dying. 


240  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


TRY  AGAIN. 


Should  your  cherished  purpose  fail, 
Try  again, 
Never  falter,  never  quail, 

Try  again. 
Nerve  the  arm  and  raise  the  hand, 

Fling  the  outer  garments  by, 

With  a  dauntless  courage  stand 

Shouting  forth  the  battle-cry, 

Try  again. 


Is  your  spirit  bowed  by  grief? 

Try  again, 
Rally  quick  for  life  is  brief, 

Try  again  ; 
Every  saint  in  yonder  sphere, 

Borne  through  tribulation  there, 
Whispers  in  the  anxious  ear 
Of  each  mortal  in  despair, 

Try  again. 


TRY    AGAIN. 


What  though  stricken  to  the  earth, 
Try  again, 
Up,  as  from  a  second  birth, 

Try  again. 
Yonder  flower  beneath  the  tread, 

Struggling  when  the  foot  has  gone. 
Rising  feebly  in  its  bed 

Tells  the  hopeless  looker-on, 

Try  again. 

Guided  by  the  hand  of  Right, 

Try  again, 
With  Hope's  taper  for  a  light, 

Try  again. 
With  a  destiny  like  ours, 

And  that  destiny  to  choose, 
With  such  God-created  powers, 
And  a  heaven  to  gain  or  lose, 

Try  again. 


24I 


I 


18 


V 


242  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


WHAT  OF  THAT. 


< 


Is  your  life  a  life  of  care? 

What  of  that ! 
Toiling  ever  though  you  are, 

What  of  that ! 
Since  the  moment  of  the  fall 

Want  by  Labor  has  been  fed, 
And  a  man  to  breathe  at  all 

Should  exchange  his  sweat  for  bread, 
What  of  that ! 

1 

Is  old  Slander  on  your  track  ? 

WThat  of  that ! 
Slyly  prating  at  your  back  ? 

What  of  that ! 
Let  no  slander  shake  the  nerve, 

Straight  and  forward  on  your  way, 
Never  for  a  moment  swerve, 
Only  turn  around  to  say, 

What  of  that  ! 


WHAT    OF    THAT.  243 

Jealous  Envy  do  you  spy  ? 

What  of  that! 
Envy  with  a  jaundiced  eye  ? 

What  of  that ! 
Mind  it  she's  too  far  below — 

Like  a  viper  robbed  of  sting — 
Rising  ever  as  you  go, 
If  she  hisses  calmly  sing, 

What  of  that ! 

Is  the  crowd  around  you  wrong  ? 

What  of  that ! 
Are  you  jostled  by  the  strong? 

What  of  that ! 
Time  will  straighten  matters  right 

Better  far  than  mortals  can, 
Truth  has  often  crouched  to  Might 
Ever  since  the  world  began, 

What  of  that! 


r 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Birthplace  of  Barkers. 


WHERE  THE  OLD  FOLKS  LIVED  AND  DIED. 


I  never  shall  tell  who  the  old  folks  were, 

'Tis  a  wasting  of  time  and  breath 
To  give  you  the  names  of  the  humble  pair 

Who  have  passed  through  the  courts  of  death. 

But  the  cot  on  the  lot  on  the  top  of  the  hill, 
Near  the  spot  where  I  just  have  cried — 

'Tis  the  lot  where  the  old  folks  toiled  and  lived', 
And  the  cot  where  the  old  folks  died — 


V 


•XT 


WHERE    THE    OLD    FOLKS    LIVED    AND    DIED.  245 


Is  dearer  far  to  my  weary  heart 

Than  the  dearest  spot  on  earth. 
For  that  was  the  cot  on  the  lot  on  the  hill 

Where  the  old  folks  gave  me  birth. 

There's  a  slab  near  the  cot  on  the  lot  on  the  hill 

That  will  tell  to  the  traveler  there, 
When  the  old  folks  passed  through  the  gates  of  death, 

And  the  names  of  the  humble  pair. 

When  I  tire  of  the  toils  and  the  cares  of  my  life, 

Oh,  then,  at  the  spot  where  I  cried, 
Near  the  cot  let  me  sleep,  on  the  top  of  the  hill, 

Cuddled  down  bv  the  old  folks'  side. 


246 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Kenduakeag  Stream  at  East  Exeter. 


WHEN  YOU  AND  I  WERE  BOYS. 


TO    GEN.    JAMES    HENRY    CARLETON,    U.    S.    A. 

I'm  dreaming  of  the  days,  dear  James, 

Such  days  we  ne'er  shall  know, 
When  happiness  lived  up  this  way 

Some  twenty  years  ago  ; 
When  feet  could  stroll  and  hearts  could  beatt 

And  never  feel  fatigue, 
Those  times  we  swam  and  fished  and  sailed 

Upon  old  Kenduskeag. 


WHEN    YOU    AND    I    WERE    BOYS. 


That  stream  now  ripples  just  the  same, 

So  calm  and  clear  but  still, 
And  turns  that  same  old  water-wheel 

Beneath  that  same  old  mill. 
But  now,  dear  James,  that  ancient  mill 

Another  crew  employs, 
The  crew  now  sleeps  that  run  that  mill 

When  you  and  I  were  boys. 


Where  are  those  lads  with  whom  we  spelt 

Within  that  school-house  room  ? 
Some,  far  away,  are  hoarding  gold, 

Some  rest  within  the  tomb. 
The  change  that  time  has  written  here 

Oft  makes  the  tear-drops  start, 
And  .sends  a  sickening  coldness  through 

Each  fibre  of  my  heart. 


We've  clambered  up  the  hill  of  life 
How  short  the  journey  seems — 

And  now  are  pitching  o'er  the  top 
Bound  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

But  when  at  last  we  reach  the  foot 
And  leave  our  earthly  toys, 

Oh,  may  we  meet  just  as  we  met 
When  you  and  I  were  boys. 


J£ 

248  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 

In  toddling  down  the  dreary  slope. 

Beset  with  dangerous  snares, 
Our  locks  bleached  out  by  frosty  winds, 

Our  backs  bent  down  by  cares  ; 
Full  oft  we'll  stop  to  take  a  breath 

And  scare  away  fatigue, 
By  dreaming  of  our  boyish  sports 

Upon  old  Kenduskeag. 

In  battling  through  our  pilgrimage 

Amid  the  ceaseless  strife, 
And  jostlings  at  each  step  we  take 

Throughout  this  warring  life, 
Oh,  would  it  not  exceed  all  bliss, 

Transcend  all  earthly  joys 
To  feel  the  freshness  that  we  felt 

When  you  and  I  were  boys. 


PATRIOTIC 


• 


A  WELCOME  TO  SECOND  ME.  REGIMENT.* 


Though  enfeebled  by  clime  and  disfigured  by  scars, 
Here's  a  "welcoming  home"  to  you,  children  of  Mars. 

\ 

From  your  honors  and  perils,  through  your  rivers  of  gore, 
We  will  welcome  you  back  like  the  Templars  of  yore. 

Like  the  knights  who  (the  song  and  the  legend  hath  told) 
Brought  their  wounds  from  the  lance  of  the  Paynim  of  old. 


We  will  welcome  you,  warriors,  all  weary  and  worn, 
We  will  welcome  your  banners,  all  tattered  and  torn  ; 

For  those  rents  tell  the  world  you've  accomplished  your 

part, 
And  the  light  streaming  through  gilds  the  hope  of  the 

heart. 

But  I  see  through  the  lens  of  a  glistening  tear — 
Oh,  I  see  what  my  heart  had  long  taught  me  to  fear, 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


There  are  some  of  your  braves  who  walked  out  in  their 

might — 
There  are  some  from  your  ranks  who  went  forth  to  the 

fight 

Are  not  here  with  you  now  in  a  bodily  form — 

Are  not  here  in  your  ranks  with  their  hearts  beating  warm , 

But  they  know  and  they  feel,  and  they  live  as  before — 
'Mid  your  scenes  of  to-day  they  are  here  en  rapport. 

Though  the  check  on  the  rolls  makes  a  part  of  you  slain. 
Yet  we  welcome  you  all  as  the  Second  of  Maine  ! 

And  to  you  who  survive,  and  to  those  who  have  bled, 
Here's  a  welcome  to  all  whether  living  or  dead  ! 

*The  Second  Maine  Regiment,  under  Colonel  Varney,  was  received 'by  the 
city  authorities  of  Bangor,  May  25,  1863,  and  I  read  the  foregoing  poem  to  them 
at  Nororabega  Hall. 


A    COMPROMISE.  253 


A  COMPROMISE. 


Thank  God  the  warrior's  widow's  wail 
From  northern  winds  shall  cease, 

For  through  the  rifted  clouds  I  hail 
The  blessed  bow  of  peace. 


But  yet  no  song  my  harp  has  sung 
Throughout  this  deadly  strife, 

No  words  have  fallen  from  my  tongue 
But  "  War — war  to  the  knife" 


And  oft  with  passion's  burning  ban 
My  fevered  lips  were  led 

To  call  my  differing  brother  man 
A  "traitorous  Copperhead." 

Now  in  the  haven  while  we  rest 
On  the  proud  old  Ship  of  State, 

I  feel  no  more  within  my  breast 
The  blazing  fires  of  hate. 


3F 


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7s: 


254  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

So,  brethren,  let  no  thought  deter 

Forgiveness  while  we  live, 
For,  oh,  'tis  human-like  to  err, 

But  God-like  to  forgive. 

With  humble  heart  and  tearful  eyes, 

With  pulses  beating  true, 
I  tender  now  one  compromise, 

"Peace  Democrats,"  with  you. 

No  "Copperheads,"  I'll  call  you,  friends, 
Nor  call  you  "traitors,"  never, 

But  compromise  and  call  you  hence 
" BOOTH  DEMOCRATS"  forever. 


% 

V 

A    FEW    WORDS    ABOUT    THE    BURNS    CASE.  255 


A  FEW  WORDS 

FROM    MAINE    TO    MASSACHUSETTS    ABOUT    THE    BURNS 
CASE. 


Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her, 
She's  a  kneeling  'mong  the  rest, 

She  that  ought  to  have  clung  forever 
In  her  grand  old  eagle-nest." 

"Is  water  running  in  your  veins?" 

Have  ye  no  pluck  at  all  ? 
What,  stand  and  see  a  gyve  put  on 

In  sight  of  Faneuil  Hall ! 

For  many  a  long  and  tedious  year 
We've  heard  your  people  tell 

About  a  little  rise  of  land 
Where  Joseph  Warren  fell. 

Oh,  brag  no  more  about  that  spot, 

Let  every  tongue  be  still, 
But  scratch  the  name  of  Bunker  out 

And  call  it  "Buncombe"  Hill. 


256  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKKR. 

We  have  no  Boston  down  in  Maine, 

No  Massachusetts  Bay, 
No  Plymouth  Rock  to  tell  the  world 

Where  once  the  Mayflower  lay  : 

No  Garrisons,  no  Phillipses, 

No  poets,  martyrs,  sages, 
No  mighty  man  to  light  a  torch 

To  lighten  future  ages. 

And  yet  with  all  our  ignorance, 

We've  often  felt  of  late 
That  Burns  could  never  have  been  dragged 

From  out  the  "Pine  Tree  State." 


FREEDOM'S  BATTLE  CRY.  257 


FREEDOM'S  BATTLE  CRY. 


Now  is  the  very  hour  for  fight, 

This  is  no  time  for  men  to  swerve. 

Oh,  rouse  ye,  freemen,  in  your  might 
And  say  which  master  ye  will  serve  — 

If  Freedom*  strike  to  save  our  land, 

If  Slavery,  join  its  robber  band. 

Dream  not  of  calms  in  days  like  these, 
From  out  your  hearts  such  hopes  dismiss, 

Dream  not  the  olive  branch  of  peace 
Can  flourish  in  a  soil  like  this  ; 

For  Slavery's  rank  and  fetid  breath 

To  every  germ  of  life  is  death. 

Are  there  no  signs  for  men  to  fear? 

Hear  ye  no  threatening*  from  the  South? 
'Tis  safer  far  to  slumber  near 

The  heaving  crater's  fiery  mouth 
Than  thus  to  cast  aside  your  swords, 
And  think  to  conquer  wrong  with  words. 

Up,  all  who  strike  for  Freedom's  cause, 
Send  forth  the  thrilling  battle  cry  — 

Quick  to  the  fight  —  no  time  to  pause  — 
The  choice  is  death  or  victory  I 

Give  freedom  to  the  toiling  slave 
Or  sleep  within  a  warrior's  grave. 


17 


258  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


GENERAL  BERRY.* 


Oh,  wipe  out  the  tears  that  bedim  ; 
What !   standing  and  weeping  for  him — 

The  soldier — why,  this  is  not  he 

In  the  long,  narrow  box  that  you  see. 

He  lives  on  just  the  same  as  before: 
This  is  only  the  blouse  that  he  wore — 

That  he  wore  'mid  the  din  and  the  strife 
In  the  terrible  battle  of  life. 


Though  death,  in  his  terrible  raid, 
Has  stolen  the  sheath  from  his  blade  ; 

Yet  that  blade  shall  be  witnessed  again 
In  the  fight,  o'er  the  ranks  of  his  men. 


GENERAL  BERRY.  259 


When  yon  waves  marshalled  out  like  a  host 
Shall  forget  to  march  up  'round  your  coast ; 

When  these  quarries  beneath  us  shall  fail, 
And  the  sun  and  the  moon  shall  turn  pale  ; 

When  the  stars  shall  wane  out  from  the  sky, 
Then  the  name  of  your  Berry  shall  die  : 

For  he  fell  with  a  myriad  like  him, 
Striking  chains  from  the  manacled  limb. 

Then  dry  up  the  tears  that  bedim  ; 
Not  standing  and  weeping  for  him — 

The  warrior — for  this  is  not  he 

In  the  long,  narrow  box  that  you  see. 

»Gen.  Hiram  G.  Berry,  of  Itocklaml,  was  killed  at  the  Battle  of  Chancellora- 
vHle.'May  3rd,  1863,  and  buried  with  military  and  masonic  honors  at  Rockland, 
May  14.  1863;  and  the  foregoing  stanzas  I  wrote  for  the  purpose  of  reading  »t 
the  burial  service,  but  was  not  able  to  attend. 


a6o 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BAKKEK. 


GUNBOAT  RHYMES 


ON    BOARD    THE    "MAHOXIXG,"    AUG.     l6,     1864. 


From  Pennsylvania's  yawning  mines 
And  from  my  native  land  of  pines, 
From  stern  New  Hampshire's  granite  hills 
And  from  your  Bay  State  Cotton  Mills ; 
From  climes  where  heated  freemen  spoke 
Their  wrongs  around  the  Charter  Oak  ; 
Whate'er  your  names,  whoe're  you  are, 
From  old  Vermont  or  Delaware, 
From  Jersey  or  Manhattan's  Isle  ; 
All  coming  here  from  many  a  mile — 
Form,  comrades,  quick,  form  in  the  ring 
And  join  me  in  this  song  I  sing. 
With  humble  heart  and  tearful  eye 
Send  up  the  prayer — send  forth  the  cry  ; 
For  heaven  to  smile,  for  God  to  bless 
Our  country  in  her  dire  distress ; 
To  haste  the  hour  when  wars  shall  cease 
And  bring  the  olive-branch  of  peace. 
Now,  brothers,  closer  join  the  ring 
And  join  another  song  I  sing  ; 
With  craven  souls,  before  we  stand 
And  see  a  leprous,  traitor  hand 
Raised  on  a  robber  arm  to  tear 
Our  nation's  ensign,  fluttering  there, 
Or  blot  one  star,  or  make  it  dim  ; 
Then  welcome  famine,  gaunt  and  grim, 
And  welcome  fire,  and  welcome  flood. 
And  welcome  deeper  seas  of  blood. 


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IMITATION. 


26l 


IMITATION. 


Hark,  what  crv  arrests  the  ear  ! 

Hark,  what  accents  of  despair  ! 
'Tis  the  bondman's  dying  prayer, 

Friends  of  Freedom  hear. 

Northern  men,  to  you  they  cry. 

Rests  on  you  the  tearful  eye, 
Help  them,  Brethren,  or  they  die, 

Die  in  dark  despair. 

Hasten,  Brother,  haste  to  save. 

Snatch  them  from  a  Bondman's  grave, 
Dangers,  death  and  distance  brave. 

Hark  !   for  help  they  call. 

See  them  bend  the  Suppliant  Knee, 
See  them  wave  their  hands  to  thee, 

Hear  them  urge  the  Heaven-born  plea, 
"Liberty  to  all." 

Gods  of  Freedom  shall  we  boast, 
•'Equal  Rights"  e'er  be  the  toast. 

While  man-stealers  range  our  coast. 
Bartering  deathless  souls? 

No,  let  Moloch's  temple  fall, 

Let  us  answer  Afric's  call. 
Till  "Liberty's  secured  to  all  !" 

Echoes  to  the  poles. 


262 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


JACK  FROST  TO  YELLOW  JACK.* 


AN    ARMY    SONG. 


Air — "A  life  on  the  ocean  wave." 


DEDICATED    TO    GEN.    BUTLER. 


Come  on  with  Treason's  hordes, 
Come  on,  you  murderous  pack. 

Jack  Frost  with  loyal  swords 
Will  meet  old  Yellow  Jack. 


And  let  each  son  of  Mars 

His  own  selection  make 
'Twixt  the  flag  with  the  stripes  and  stars, 

And  the  flag  with  the  raftle-snake. 


For  never  till  the  end  of  time 
Can  flags  so  diverse  as  these, 

Be  borne  in  the  self-same  clime 
Or  float  in  the  self-same  breeze. 


JACK  FROST  TO  YELLOW  JACK. 


We  wage  no  party  fight, 
We  wield  no  tyrant's  rod, 

We  fight  for  life — for  right — 
For  Freedom  and  for  God. 


Then  come  with  Treason's  hordes. 
And  come  you  murderous  pack, 

Jack  Frost  with  loyal  swords 
Will  meet  old  Yellow  Jack. 

*"Yellow  Jack"  i»  a  Southern  disease,  which  is  said  to  disappear  at  the  first 
Jroit*  of  .Autumn. 


264  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


'LET  US  HAVE  PEACE." 


ADDRESSED    TO    PRESIDENT    GRANT. 

It  needs  the  nerve  to  stand  upright 

And  bullets  take  and  give, 
But  different  nerve  to  stand  and  fight 

The  age  in  which  you  live. 

Old  Chief,  of  heart  and  arm  so  strong, 

With  tuneful  harp  again 
We  welcome  you  with  honest  song 

To  the  rough  coasts  of  Maine. 

From  every  loyal  word  that  falls 

Upon  our  Northern  air, 
From  peasant's  cot  and  princely  halls 

We  breathe  one  earnest  prayer. 

Our  prayer  is  this :  that  through  the  land 

All  bickerings  shall  cease, 
And  that  our  nation's  sky  be  spanned 

By  the  blessed  bow  of  peace. 


LET  US  HAVE  PEACE.  265 

Give  peace  our  passions  to  assuage — 

The  sweetest  boon  of  earth, 
But  peace  of  honest  parentage, 

And  not  of  bastard  birth. 


One  kind  of  peace  will  never  do — 
Peace  tricked  out  for  a  day, 

With  outside  dress  of  Union  blue. 
And  under-clothes  of  gray. 


Not  peace  that  glibly  prates  and  sings 
About  the  stripes  and  stars, 

And  hides  beneath  the  eagle's  wings 
The  rebel  stars  and  bars  ; 


That  whispers  round  with  look  so  bland, 

But  keeps  without  remorse, 
Concealed  and  armed,  its  robber  band 

Within  some  Trojan  horse. 


Not  peace  to  them — the  craven  clique 
Whose  hearts  have  never  felt 

The  meanness  of  the  coward's  trick 
To  strike  below  the  belt. 


* 

X 

266  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 


Have  peace,  but  of  the  self-same  kind 
You  made  with  Robert  Lee — 

With  you  before  and  him  behind 
That  Appomatox  tree. 

Peace,  though  amid  the  scattered  wreck 
From  crash  of  love  with  hate, 

Peace,  born  and  christened  on  the  deck 
Of  the  old  Ship  of  State. 


Peace,  though  again  you  bathe  her  prow 

In  the  red  sea  of  death, 
And  breathe  upon  a  foeman's  brow 

With  the  hot  cannon's  breath. 


LEV  I     E.MEKSON. 


267 


LEVI  EMERSON, 


OK    THE    FIRST    VOLUNTEER. 


What!  never  saw  Captain  Emerson, 

Looking  so  cool  and  calm  ; 
Toiling  away  at  his  old  abode 
Two  miles  or  more  from  the  Hampden  road 

Out  there  on  the  Miller  farm  ? 

Well,  that  is  most  wonderful  queer. 
Why,  he  was  the  man,  Lord  bless  your  souls. 
The  very  first  man  who  signed  the  rolls, 
The  very  first  one  who  shouldered  his  gun — 
In  the  wild  old  spring  of  "sixty-one" 
As  a  Union  Volunteer. 

Made  the  first  advance  to  the  fiery  front, 
And  stood  in  the  battle's  booggerish  brunt. 
Yes,  led  the  tramp  of  the  warring  host 
From  the  golden  shores  to  the  Quoddy  coast, 
Of  the  hosts  that  rose  in  their  Union  Blue 
Like  the  plaided  hordes  of  Roderick  Dhu. 
I  tell  you  now  as  I  hope  for  bliss 
(For  I  never  would  lie  'bout  a  thing  like  this,) 
I  tell  you  my  friend,  why,  bless  your  soul, 
I  have  a  certified  duplicate  roll 

Of  the  Captain's  file  and  rank  ; 
While  the  roll  first  signed  with  ink  and  pen 
By  the  eighty  stern  and  stalwart  men 

Hangs  now  in  the  Farmer's  Bank. 
Look  for  yourselves  while  going  past 
Emerson  first  and  Drummond  last. 


' 


V 


268  POEMS    BY    DAVrID    BARKER. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  OAKS. 


Another  veteran  sinks  to  rest, 
His  earthly  pilgrimage  is  o'er. 

His  last  dread  battle  now  is  fought 
And  he  has  made  a  happier  shore. 

We  could  but  weep  as  to  the  tomb 
We  bore  the  cold  and  pulseless  frame 

Of  him  who  bled  at  Bennington, 
When  liberty  was  but  a  name. 

No  clash  of  arms  nor  cannon's  roar. 
Nor  Freedom's  call  nor  battle's  din 

Can  wake  him  from  that  lasting  sleep, 
Nor  tempt  him  back  to  earth  again. 

Though  he  has  gone  to  that  last  bourne 
From  which  no  traveler  returns. 

His  noble  deeds  and  name  will  live 
While  Freedom's  lighted  altar  burns. 

Upon  a  nation's  grateful  heart 

They're  written  down  by  memory's  pen, 
And  time  shall  never  dare  erase 

The  deeds  of  patriotic  men. 

When  recollection  leaves  her  throne. 

When  Liberty  and  life  are  not, 
When  ancient  chaos  holds  its  reign, 

Then  veterans  shall  be  forgot. 


LINES    ADDRESSED    TO   JOHN    A.    HILL.  269 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  JOHN  A.  HILL, 

CAPT.    OF    CO.    K,     Ilth    ME.    REG'T,    AT    A    PUBLIC    MEET 
ING    IN    STETSON. 


Welcome  back  again  brave  soldier 
From  your  fields  of  fire  and  flood  ; 

Welcome  to  your  scenes  of  childhood, 
Tho'  your  hands  be  stained  with  blood. 

From  the  pallid  lips  of  weakness, 
From  the  florid  lips  of  health, 

From  the  poor  man  in  his  tatters, 
From  the  rich  man  in  his  wealth, 

From  the  old  man  toddling  to  you 

Trusting  to  his  faithful  cane, 
From  the  wee  ones  at  the  window 

Prattling  through  the  broken  pane, 

From  your  brethren  with  the  lambskin, 
And  their  mystic  grip  and  sign, 

From  the  poet  in  his  frenzies 
Coming  from  the  fabled  Nine, 

There's  a  greeting  for  you,  soldier, 
From  the  great  and  from  the  small, 

There's  a  welcome  for  you,  Craftsman, 
There's  a  welcome  from  us  all. 


POHMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


•OLD  WILLEY." 


Who  cares  in  this  crowd  what  a  Homer  says 

Of  the  warring  man  in  the  ancient  days  ; 

What  matters  it  now  to  you  or  me 

Though  the  Iliad  or  Odyssey 

May  tell  of  the  time  when  a  Trojan  corse 

Was  tramped  by  the  feet  of  a  Grecian  horse  ; 

Though  the  epic  song  of  the  bard  may  state 

How  Achilles  fell  at  the  Scaean  Gate? 

But  it  startles  a  world  that  I  am  come  down 

To  tell  of  a  man  from  my  native  town  : 

Of  a  man  unknown,  obscure  and  plain, 

But  who  once  belonged  to  the  nth  of  Maine  ! 


When  Slavery,  pressed  by  Freedom  hard. 

Fired  up  the  heart  of  a  Beauregard. 

And  the  first  red  shot  on  Sumter  fell. 

And  the  Eagle  screamed  like  a  scream  from  hell ; 

When  her  shriek  went  out  o'er  vale  and  crag 

As  she  clung  like  death  to  the  dear  old  Flag. 

And  the  first  kind  look  she  got  was  one 


I 


% 


OLD    WILLEY. 


From  a  man  named  Robert  Anderson, 

I  felt  somehow,  and  I  wrote  and  said 

That  we  had  a  big  old  trouble  ahead. 

With  all  my  faith  in  God  and  such. 

With  all  my  religion,  and  that  wan't  much, 

My  faith  wan't  clear  and  my  hope  wan't  bright 

Till  Daniel  E.  Willey  went  into  the  fight. 


They  called  him  "  Old  Willey"  up  there,  I'm  sure 

'Tis  a  term  oft  used  when  our  clothes  get  poor ; 

He  laid  the  wall  and  he  sawed  the  wood 

For  me  and  others  in  the  neighborhood  ; 

He  never  could  lecture  and  never  could  speak 

One  word  of  grammar,  and  couldn't  read  Greek, 

Though  he  dwelt  in  that  old  school-house,  'tis  true, 

Where  the  old  road  butts  at  the  avenue. 

Through  his  leaky  boots  you  could  see  his  feet 

As  he  toiled  for  his  daily  food  to  eat ; 

For  many  a  palm  can  never  hold 

The  sordid  dust  that  is  scraped  from  gold. 

Though  he  felled  the  trees  and  he  tilled  the  lands 

With  his  biawnv  arms  and  his  hornv  hands, 

It  never  entered  a  soldier's  brain 

That  Willey  would  ever  fight  or  train  : 

And  never  getting  a  draft  or  call 

He  sawed  the  wood  and  he  laid  the  wall. 


272 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


One  day  to  my  village  two  men  rode  down — 

Yes,  both  came  over  from  Stetson  town, 

And  one  was  General  Hill,  I  believe, 

He  hadn't  on  then  that  empty  sleeve  ; 

I  could  told  them  quick  that  he  wouldn't  yield 

For  a  one  right  arm  on  the  Deep  Run  field  ; 

And  the  other  fellow  with  Hill,  they  say 

Was  General  Plaisted,  who  talks  to-day. 

This  Willey  an  J  I  were  standing  o'er 

(He  sawing  wood)  near  my  office  door. 

As  the  men  from  Stetson  town  rode  by 

A  neighbor  of  mine  was  standing  nigh, — 

With  his  traitor  lips  to  the  startled  air 

He  hissed  the  flag  that  was  floating  there. 

Like  a  granite  post  old  Willey  stood 

And  his  old  saw  dropped  from  the  half-sawed  wood  ; 

Then  he  hoisted  the  strap  round  his  big  broad  hips 

And  he  crumbled  the  pipe  'neath  his  firm  blue  lips  ; 

And  his  burnt,  tanned  face  gave  a  fiendish  smile, 

But  never  a  word  did  he  speak  the  while 

Till  he  glowered  at  the  man  hard  by,  and  when 

He  taunted  that  Union  flag  again, 

Then  his  tortured  nerves  like  a  serpent  coiled 

And  these  tough  words  from  the  old  man  boiled  : 

Said  he,  "  Did  you  hear  how  that  devil  hiissed? 

By  Jesus,  Squire*  I'm  going  to  enlist!" 

Though  he  split  huge  logs  he  couldn't  stand 

The  thought  of  a  rift  in  his  native  land, 


% 


OLD    WILLEY.  273 


And  he  did  enlist,  for  the  brave  old  soul, 

With  hi?  name  on  the  gallant  Plaisted's  roll, 

For  the  cast  of  a  die,  for  a  loss  or  gain, 

With  the  gory,  famed  old  nth  of  Maine, 

For  a  mortal  fray  with  his  kith  and  kind 

Left  a  dying  wife  and  a  child  behind, 

Marched  out  to  the  front  where  he  fought  and  bled, 

And  he  came  back  maimed,  and  now  he  is  dead. 

With  his  folded  arms  he  lies  so  still 

In  a  cold,  sound  sleep  on  the  "Crowell  Hill." 

I  wish  t  knew  if  he  felt  the  least 

As  he  felt  when  our  Father's  flag  was  hissed  ; 

For  he  slumbers  there  'neath  a  beetling  crag 

By  the  side  of  the  one  who  hissed  the  flag. 

As  we  go  all  pale,  with  the  boatman,  o'er 
In  our  final  voyage  to  the  other  shore, 
'Mid  the  fearful  surge  of  the  rolling  tide, 

Sometimes  you  know 

That  friend  and  foe 
Will  crouch  and  cuddle  down  side  by  side. 

In  the  last  review,  somewhere  beyond, 

Of  the  world's  grand  army  train, 
When  the  books  are  read  to  an  anxious  throng 

And  they  call  for  the  i  ith  of  Maine, 
And  the  Judges  come  to  Willey's  case, 


274  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Looking  so  wrise  and  grim  ; 

Unless  by  some  strange  farce  they  rout 

And  crush  this  life's  remembrance  out, 

Or  blot  those  scenes  of  warring  strife 

When  battling  for  a  Nation's  life, 

And  from  my  soul  wipe  every  trace 

Of  love  for  Country,  Home  and  Race  ; 

If  any  part  of  me  is  there, 

In  the  face  of  every  power  I  swear 

If  Willey  finds  no  credit  given 

Behind  those  balance  sheets  in  Heaven, 

For  fighting  in  the  nth  of  Maine, 

And  reapes  thereby  no  single  gain — 

Although  a  spirit  death  I  die 

With  loss  of  immortality. 

Should  I  find  his  case  is  going  hard 

I'll  help  the  old  man  "run  the  guard" 

Ere  the  srold  gate  swings  on  him. 


PAT.    GOLDEN.  275 


PAT.  GOLDKN.* 


I  have  seen  him  to-dav, 
And  have  sat  by  his  side 

Learning  small  bits  of  brogue 
As  he  gave  me  a  ride. 

I  was  glad  to  meet  "Pat," 

Before  leaving  earth's  shore — 

Having  heard — having  read 
Of  "Pat.  Golden"  before. 

From  the  stories  they  told 
I  have  honored  his  name, 

And  would  walk  with  bare-feet 
But  to  add  to  his  fame. 

From  my  thought-plain  to-day. 
Just  believe  me — I  ain't 

Going  to  ask  him  at  all 
If  he's  sinner  or  saint. 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Through  all  worlds  that  may  come 

I'll  remember  Bull  Rim 
And  remember  the  years 

Since  the  year  sixty-one. 

To  the  throng  that  sank  down 
From  the  loved  ones  on  earth, 

Patrick  Golden  gave  large 

From  the  group  at  his  hearth. 

From  the  first  to  the  last. 

Through  each  pulse  of  his  soul, 
Patrick  Golden  was  true 

As  the  star  at  the  pole. 


*Patrick  Golden  wan  one  of  the  few  loyal  Irishmen   in  Bangor,  Me.,rduring 
the  Rebellion. 


\ 

\ 


% 


THE    OLD    CAMl'    GROUND. 


277 


Carap  Ground. 


THE  OLD  CAMP  GROUND. 


As  the  sun  sank  down  to  rest. 
Like  a  child  upon  the  breast. 

Guarded  by  the  picket  on  his  round, 
Each  regiment  and  corps. 
With  another  day's  toil  o'er. 

Was  feasting  on  the  old  camp  ground. 


278  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

But  there  came  another  sound, 

For  the  grape  and  shot  and  shell — 
Hissing  like  a  fiend  of  hell — 
On  their  serried  columns  fell, 
At  the  closing  of  the  fight. 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

There  was  blood  upon  the  old  camp  ground. 

Then  the  hasty,  fervent  prayer 
Of  the  priest,  who  hurried  there, 
Like  a  mother  kneeling  o'er 
Some  young  hero  in  his  gore, 

Faintly  gasping  out  the  name 
That  an  absent  loved  one  bore  ; 
Told  of  who  the  wine-press  trod, 
Told  of  hope  and  faith  in  God 

To  the  dying  on  the  old  camp  ground. 

When  the  night  had  worn  away, 
Then  the  blessed  beams  of  day, 

By  the  spade  and  ditch  and  mound, 
Told  that  spirits,  brave  and  true, 
Had  forsook  those  forms  in  blue 

And  ascended  from  the  old  camp  ground. 


THE    OLD    SHIP    OF    STATE.  279 


THE  OLD  SHIP  OF  STATE. 


O'er  the  dark  and  the  gloomy  horizon  that  bounds  her, 
Thro'  the  storm  and  the  night  and  the  hell  that  surrounds 

her, 

I  can  see  with  a  faith  which  immortals  have  given, 
Burning  words  blazing  out  o'er  the  portals  of  heaven, 

"Sfie  Will  Liver 

But  a  part  of  \\\z  freight  that  our  forefathers  gave  her 
We  must  cast  to  the  deep,  yawning  waters  to  save  her, — 
'Tis  the  chain  for  the  slave  we  must  fling  out  to  light  her, 
'Tis  the  brand  and  the  whip  we  must  yield  up  to  right  her, 

She  will  live. 

CLEAN  THE  DECKS  OF  THE  CURSE — if  opposed  by  the 

owner. 

Hurl  the  wretch  to  the  wave,  as  they  hurled  over  Jonah, 
With  a  "FREEDOM  TO  ALL,"  gleaming  forth  from    our 

banner, 

Let  the  tyrant  yet  learn  we  have  freemen  to  man  her, 

She  will  live. 


She  will  live  while  a  billow  lies  swelling  before  her, 
She  will  live  while  the  blue  arch  of  heaven  bends  o'er  her, 
While  the  name  of  a  Christ  to  the  fallen  we  cherish, 
Till  the  hopes  in  the  breast  of  humanity  perish, 

She  will  live. 


280  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKF.R. 


T 


THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE. 


By  the  moon's  pale  light,  to  this  gazing  throng, 
Let  me  tell  one  tale,  let  me  sing  one  song — 
'Tis  a  tale  devoid  of  an  aim  or  plan, 
'Tis  a  simple  song  of  a  one-arm  man  ; 
Till  this  very  hour  I  could  ne'er  believe 
What  a  tell-tale  thing  is  an  empty  sleeve — 
What  a  weird,  queer  thing  is  an  empty  sleeve. 


>T 

THE    EMPTY    SLEEVE.  28 1 


It  tells  in  a  silent  tone  to  all 
Of  a  country's  need  and  a  country's  call, 
Of  a  kiss  and  a  tear  for  a  child  and  wife, 
And  a  hurried  march  for  a  nation's  life ; 
Till  this  very  hour  would  you  e'er  believe 
What  a  tell-tale  thing  is  an  empty  sleeve — 
What  a  weird,  queer  thing  is  an  empty  sleeve. 

It  tells  of  a  battle-field  of  gore, 
Of  the  saber's  clash,  of  the  cannon's  roar, 
Of  the  deadly  charge — of  the  bugle's  note. 
Of  a  gurgling  sound  in  a  foeman's  throat, 
Of  the  whizzing  grape — of  the  fiery  shell, 
Of  a  scene  which  mimics  the  scenes  of  hell ; 
Till  this  very  hour  who  could  e'er  believe 
What  a  tell-tale  thing  is  an  empty  sleeve — 
What  a  weird,  queer  thing  is  an  empty  sleeve. 

Though  it  points  to  a  myriad  wounds  and  scars, 

Yet  it  tells  that  a  flag,  with  the  stripes  and  stars, 

In  God's  own  chosen  time  will  take 

Each  place  of  the  rag  with  the  rattle-snake, 

And  it  points  to  a  time  when  that  flag  will  wave 

O'er  a  land  where  there  breathes  no  cowering  slave  ; 

To  the  top  of  the  skies  let  us  all  then  heave 

One  proud  hurrah  for  the  empty  sleeve  ! 

For  the  one  arm  man  and  the  empty  sleeve  ! 


282  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  SOLDIERS  OF  MEDUXNEKEAG. 


Come  on  with  me  now,  let  us  travel  on. 

Not  far,  not  many  a  league 
From  the  spot  where  the  old  and  bold  St.  John 

Locks  hands  with  Meduxnekeag. 

As  a  pay  or  a  fee  for  this  stroll  with  me, 

I  will  tell  you  a  tale  to-day 
Of  the  wife,  the  mother,  the  widow — all  three — 

And  the  soldiers — Robert  Gray. 

It  was  here,  very  near  where  we  stroll  to-day, 
Where  the  grim  old  barrack  stands. 

That  a  girl,  in  the  pride  of  her  youth,  they  say 
With  a  Sergeant  Gray  locked  hands. 

But  death  stole  into  those  barrack  walls 
Which  stood  near  the  river's  banks, 

And  entered  the  name  of  that  Sergeant  Gray- 
On  the  list  of  his  spectre  ranks. 

But  the  years  rolled  by  at  Meduxnekeag, 

When  quick  came  a  country's  call 
For  the  name  of  her  own — of  her  manly  boy — 

Through  a  rent  in  that  barrack  wall. 


SOLDIERS    OF    MEDUXNEKEAG.  283 

She  bade  him  go  forth  from  Meduxnekeag, 

To  his  God  and  his  country  true — 
She  bade  him  go  forth,  this  young  Robert  Gray, 

Clad  out  in  his  Union  blue. 

He  went,  but  he  wandered  not  back  again 

To  the  roof  near  the  river's  banks — 
He  went  like  his  father,  old  Sergeant  Gray, 

To  fill  up  death's  spectre  ranks. 

From  the  charge  on  that  field  that  was  steeping  in  gore 
He  went  where  the  brave  spirits  dwell, 

With  "no  matter  for  me, but  push  on  my  brave  boys," 
Ringing  out  o'er  the  shot  and  the  shell. 

What  is  that  crouching  there,  in  the  barrack  nook, 
Bowed  down  by  the  hand  of  dismay? 

There's  a  trace  in  her  face  of  the  laughing  girl — 
'Tis  the  mother  of  Robert  Gray. 

Let  us  leave  these  weird  walls  at  Meduxnekeag, 

I'm  too  old  and  ashamed  to  cry, 
And  I  feel  that  the  tears  are  rushing  fast 

For  the  crow's  feet  'round  my  eye. 

But  my  friends,  if  you  worship  a  God  in  this  life, 

And  you  ever  kneel  down  to  pray, 
Remember  the  mother,  the  widow,  the  wife 

Of  the  soldiers— Robert  Gray. 


284  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


TO  JOHN  BROWN  IN  PRISON. 


Stand  firm,  John  Brown,  till  your  fate  is  o'er, 

For  the  world  with  an  anxious  eye 
Looks  on  as  it  seldom  has  looked  before, 
While  the  hour  of  your  doom  draws  nigh — 

Stand  firm, 
John  Brown, 
Stand  firm  ! 

Dread  not  the  blow  that  a  coward  deals. 

And  fear  not  the  tyrant's  nod, 
Doubt  not  the  end  of  the  work  you  would  shape, 
For  you're  shaping  the  work  of  God — 

Stand  firm, 
John  Brown, 
Stand  firm  ! 

The  outer  John  Brown  they  may  torture  and  kill, 

And  tumble  it  into  a  grave, 

But  the  inner  John  Brown  will  trouble  them  still 
By  its  whisperings  'round  with  the  slave — 

Stand  firm, 
John  Brown, 
Stand  firm ! 

Death  nears  you,  John  Brown,  old  outer  John  Brown, 

And  marks  you  as  food  for  the  worm, 
But  death  nor  the  worm  can  harm  inner  John  Brown, 
So  inner  John  Brown,  stand  firm — 

Stand  firm, 
John  Brown, 
Stand  firm  ! 
Old  inner  John  Brown,  Stand  firm  ! 


\ 


THE     REBELLION. 


285 


THE  REBELLION. 


There's  a  law  of  compensation 
And  a  law  of  retribution 
For  each  mortal  and  each  nation, 
And  I've  seen  the  plain  solution. 
If  there's  truth  in  the  evangel, 
Then  the  old  recording  angel, 
By  that  law  of  compensation, 
And  that  law  of  retribution, 
For  I've  seen  the  whole  solution 
Has  a  reckoning  with  this  nation. 

1  have  seen  the  primal  entry 
In  the  books  beyond  the  sentry, 
Of  the  sentry  standing  ever 
Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river  ; 
At  the  bridge  that  passes  over, 
At  the  dark  bridge  with  the  cover. 


On  a  midnight  dark  and  dreary, 
\Yhen  my  form  was  weak  and  weary, 


\ 


286 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


Then  my  spirit  left  its  dwelling, 
Left  it  in  another's  keeping, 
In  the  kind  care  of  another, 
Of  a  loving  angel  brother 
Who  had  left  his  earth  friends  weeping 
And  had  crossed  the  river  swelling, 
But  had  found  a  passage  over 
Through  the  dark  bridge  with  the  cover 
And  had  made  another  entry 
On  the  shore  this  side  the  sentry. 
Of  the  sentry  standing  ever 
Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river. 

As  my  spirit  made  its  entry 
On  the  shore  beyond  the  sentry. 
Of  the  sentry  standing  ever 
Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river, 
At  the  bridge  that  passes  over, 
At  the  dark  bridge  with  the  cover, 
There  I  met  the  writing  angel 
With  his  records  all  before  him, 
And  a  halo  hanging  o'er  him, 
With  his  books  named  in  the  evangel. 
With  a  saddened,  anxious  feeling, 
Through  my  inner  spirit  stealing. 
Turned  I  to  the  writing  angel, 
With  his  books  named  in  the  evangel. 
Just  to  learn  the  situation 


THE     REBELLION.  2$7 

Of  our  struggling,  bleeding  nation  ; 
Just  to  learn  this  from  the  entry 
On  the  books  beyond  the  sentry. 
Of  the  sentry  standing  ever 
Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river, 
At  the  bridge  that  passes  over, 
At  the  dark  bridge  with  the  cover. 

With  a  tear  the  angel  said  it, 

"  There's  your  debt*  and  there's  your  credit. 

Just  inspect  each  primal  entry 

On  the  books  this  side  the  sentry, 

Of  the  sentry  standing  ever 

Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river, 

At  the  bridge  that  passes  over, 

At  the  dark  bridge  with  the  cover." 

Turned  I  quick  aside  the  cover, 

And  L  glanced  the  pages  over. 

And  I  found  the  primal  entry 

On  the  books  beside  the  sentry. 

Of  the  sentry  standing  ever 

Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river. 

At  the  bridge  that  passes  over. 

At  the  dark  bridge  with  the  cover, 

Was  before  the  old  embargo, 

When  the  Dutch  ship  with  her  cargo 

Ploughed  her  keel  across  our  waters 

With  her  fettered  sons  and  daughters. 


2S8  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

'Tvvas  a  charge  for  countless  terrors, 
And  the  middle  passage  horrors. 
Turned  I  then  again  the  cover, 
And  I  searched  the  pages  over, 
But  I  found  no  credit  entry 
On  the  books  beyond  the  sentry, 
Of  the  sentry  standing  ever 
Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river, 
At  the  bridge  that  passes  over, 
At  the  dark  bridge  with  the  cover. 
Then  I  gave  unto  the  angel 
All  his  books  named  in  the  evangel, 

O          " 

When  a  deep  and  saddened  feeling 
Came  across  my  spirit  stealing; 
But  the  angel  sternly  said  it — 
44  Tou  shall  have  your  honest  credit." 
Then  the  next  and  second  entry 
On  the  books  beyond  the  sentry, 
Of  the  sentry  standing  ever 
Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river. 
Was  the  wails  of  wives  and  mothers, 
And  for  fathers,  sisters,  brothers — 
When  the  auction  hammer  thundered 
That  all  human  ties  were  sundered. 

Then  the  next  and  final  entry 
On  the  books  beyond  the  sentry, 
Of  the  sentry  standing  ever 


%_ 

THE     REBELLION. 


Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river, 
At  the  bridge  that  passes  over, 
At  the  dark  bridge  with  the  cover, 
Was  the  proceeds  of  the  cargo, 
«  Brought  before  the  old  embargo  ; 

And  I  found  the  angel  had  it 
With  each  mill  of  interest  added. 
But  we  pass  now  to  the  credit 
As  the  writing  angel  had  it — 
"When  your  land  is  filled  with  terrors, 
Like  the  middle  passage  horrors. 
All  the  horrors  of  each  cargo 
.Since  the  Dutch  keel  ploughed  your  waters, 
With  her  sable  sons  and  daughters, 
Long  before  the  slave  embargo  ; 
When  your  wails  of  wives  and  mothers, 
Of  your  fathers,  sisters,  brothers, 
Shall  amount  through  all  your  slaughters 
To  the  wails  of  sons  and  daughters, 
Of  the  sable  sons  and  daughters. 
Since  the  auction  hammer  thundered 
That  all  human  ties  were  sundered  ; 
When  the  proceeds  of  the  cargo 
Brought  before  the  old  embargo, 
When  the  proceeds  as  you  had  it, 
With  each  mill  of  interest  added, 
Shall  be  squandered  in  your  slaughters, 
'Mid  your  wails  of  wives  and  daughters 


2QO  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

You  will  get  your  honest  credit." 

Then  he  closed  the  opening  cover, 
When  #gain  I  crossed  the  river 
By  the  sentry  standing  ever 
Gaunt  and  grim  beside  the  river  ; 
Then  my  spirit  sought  its  dwelling 
Left  within  another's  keeping, 
Of  an  angel  brother's  keeping. 
W'hen  my  brother  left  this  dwelling 
And  recrossed  the  river  swelling 
From  the  land  with  sorrow  laden. 
To  his  better  home  in  Aidenn. 


_</ 


YOU    THOUSAND    OF    MEN. 


YOU  THOUSAND  OF  MEN. 


ADDRESSED    TO    THE    iSth    MAINE    REGIMENT    ON    ITS    DE 
PARTURE    FOR    THE    SEAT    OF    WAR.    1862. 

Sav.  where  are  you  going,  you  thousand  of  men? 

Now  one  thing  is  certain. 
That  never,  ah  never 
This  side  the  deep  river. 

This  side  the  dark  curtain 
Just  flung  out  to  screen  us, 
Which  drops  down  between  us 
And  those  who've  passed  over 
That  cold,  stormy  river. 

No,  never  again 

Shall  this  crowd  ever  meet  you. 
Shall  this  throng  ever  greet  you 
In  a  bodily  form 
With  your  hearts  beating  warm — 

You  thousand  of  men  ! 

But.  thank  the  Great  Giver. 
Though  crossing  that  river 
Your  barks  may  be  shattered. 
Your  Outer  Garbs  tattered — 
Thank  God  that  again 


292  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

From  the  mount  you  inherit 
You  may  come  back  in  spirit 
All  you  who  pass  over 
That  cold,  stormy  river — 
You  may  come  back  to  meet  us, 
You  may  come  back  to  greet  us 
With  your  hearts  beating  warm 
In  a  blesseder  form — 
You  thousand  of  men  ! 

With  the  clearest  of  vision 

I  have  witnessed  the  yearning 
Of  the  troops  now  returning 
From  the  land  so  elysian  ; 
Of  the  troops  who  passed  over 
That  cold,  stormy  river, 
'Mid  the  roar  and  the  rattle 
Of  a  nation  in  battle — 

So,  quickly  again 
From  the  mount  you  inherit, 

You  must  come  back  to  meet  us, 
You  must  come  back  to  greet  us, 
You  must  come  back  in  spirit 
With  your  hearts  beating  warm 
In  a  blissfuller  form, 
All  you  who  pass  over 
That  cold,  stormy  river— 
From  you  thousand  of  men  ! 

IS 


I 


V 


A    THOUGHT. 


295 


A  THOUGHT. 


I  wouldn't  surrender  the  exquisite  pleasure 
Of  soothing  a  sorrow  and  drying  a  tear 
By  heaping  around  me,  regardless  of  measure, 
The  purest  of  gold  and  the  choicest  of  treasure 
Which  Dives,  while  living,  inherited  here. 

I  wouldn't  add  pain  to  a  chord  that  is  aching, 

Nor  furrow  new  lines  on  the  forehead  of  care, 
Nor  prove  instrumental,  ah  never,  in  making 
One  throb  of  a  poor  brother's  heart  that  is  breaking 
Or  bleeding  from  wounds  by  the  blade  of  despair. 

I  wouldn't  kneel  down  to  the  goddess  of  fashion 
And  list  to  the  notes  of  her  treacherous  song, 
Nor  govern  my  pulse  by  the  fever  of  passion, 
Nor  blindly  and  madly  and  recklessly  dash  on 
Neglectful  of  right  to  the  bosom  of  wrong. 

I  wouldn't  give  much  for  the  world  that  we  live  in 

Where  fruitful  is  hatred  and  barren  is  love, 
Where  friendship's  foundation  is  ever  upheaving, 
And  half  of  existence  is  squandered  in  grieving 
Except  for  the  hopes  of  a  heaven  above. 


296  pdEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


A  BACHELOR'S  LIFE  FOR  ME. 


A  bachelor's  life  for  me 

While  wandering  here  below, 

A  life  from  anxiety  free, 

A  scene  that's  unknown  to  woe. 

They  said  when  my  youth  passed  by, 
And  time  with  its  palsying  breath 

Had  dimmed  the  fire  of  my  eye 
And  taunted  my  hopes  with  death, 

That  a  ray  from  woman's  love 
Would  light  up  my  cheerless  way 

Which  leads  to  the  realms  above, 
And  scatter  all  clouds  awav. 


I've  climbed  to  life's  mountain  top 
Unblessed  by  a  blushing  bride, 

And  now  'tis  too  late  to  stop 
While  toddling  the  other  side. 


7C 


A  BACHELOR'S  LIFE  FOR  ME.  297 

I  go  to  the  Lodge  by  night 

And  practice  the  mystic  art. 
And  tarry  till  morning  light 

And  leave  with  a  merry  heart. 

I  fly  to  my  curtained  room 

And  fall  on  my  cozy  bed, 
And  fear  not  the  horrid  gloom 

Which  hangs  round  a  husband's  head. 

The  Craftsmen's  ^lectures"  I  take 

With  a  world  of  relish  and  glee, 
But  woman's  lectures  would  make 

Me  worse  than  a  man  should  be. 

A  bachelor's  life  for  me 

While  wandering  here  below, 
A  life  from  anxiety  free, 

A  scene  that's  unknown  to  woe. 


298  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


AFTER  MARRIAGE. 


IX    I.MITATIOX    OF    POE. 

Thank  heaven  the  crisis, 

The  danger  is  passed  ; 
This  billing  and  cooing 

Is  over  at  last. 

And  the  fever  called  ''•courting" 
Is  over  at  last. 

This  primping  and  fussing, 

This  breaking  of  rest 
Have  ceased  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  breast ; 
With  the  fever  called  "courting" 

That  maddened  my  breast ! 

And  oh  !  of  all  tortures  ! 

That  scorpion  whip 
Has  abated  ;  that  terrible 

Fear  of  a  "slip;" 
That  worst  of  all  curses, 

The  fear  of  a  "slip  !" 

My  tranquilized  spirit 

Now  blandly  reposes, 
Forgetting  or  never 

Regretting  past  roses  ; 
Its  old  agitations 

From  myrtle  to  roses. 


I 


/r 

AN     HOfK     WITH     TOM     IM. I'M  ADORE.  299 


AN  HOUR  WITH  TOM  PLUMADORE. 


What,  never  saw  Tom  Plumadore  — 
Him  from  the  Frenchman  nation 

Who  runs  the  tank  at  Clinton  Gore, 
At  the  old  Biirnham  station? 

You  know  Judge  Rice,  who  sleeps  on  down- 

Our  learned,  legal  brother — 
Him  of  the  highest  type  of  man, 

Tom  Plumadore  the  other. 

Rice  is  the  famed  Maine  Central  boss — 
Runs  that  machine  of  '•'hisen ;" 

Tom  runs  the  tank — a  kind  of  cross 
'Twixt  hell  and  Libby  prison. 

For  years  within  that  tank,  'tis  said. 

That  Bull-Run  scarred  old  fellow 
lias  slept  with  pea-straw  for  his  bed 

And  beech-log  for  his  pillow. 

Oh,  strange  extremes  that  meet  our  eyes 

Which  ever  way  we  turn  'em — 
Soft  down  for  the  sleek  limbs  of  Rice, 

And  straw  for  Tom  at  Burnham  ! 

I  tried  Tom's  bed.  and  thought,  perhaps. 
My  poor,  scarred  Bull-Run  brother 

May  find  some  sweeter,  pea-straw  naps, 
Than  down  may  yield  the  other. 


V 


3OO  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  OCEAN. 


Written  on  my  first  and  last  sea  voyage,  on  board  of  schooner  "hucretia,"  is 
1841,  bound  for  the  city  of  Washington,  from  Eastport. 


"Roll  on  thou  dark  and  deep  blue  ocean,  roll ;" 
Roll  on  and  moan  and  rear  thy  horse-like  mane, 

But  never  more  shall  thou  my  powers  control 
Or  use  thy  stomach-pump  on  me  again. 

I  loved  thee  once,  but  ah,  that  love  has  fled, 
For  well  I  know  thou  treated  me  too  rough — 

Thou  poured  thy  choicest  fury  on  my  head 
And  would  not  cease  when  I  did  cry  enough. 

The  heart  of  man,  though  made  of  flint  and  steel, 
Is  often  moved  by  seeing  mortal's  woes, 

Thy  liquid  heart  was  never  made  to  feel 

For  human  writhings  or  for  death-like  throes. 

Oh,  sooner  let  me  be  where  Etna's  fire 
Shall  send  around  its  crimson  lava  tide. 

Or  dwell  in  caves  with  fabled  gorgons  dire, 

Than  hear  thy  splashing  'gainst  Lucretia's  side. 


V 


APOSTROPHE    TO    THE     OCEAN.  30! 


Say,  didst  thou  hope  to  make  Lucretia  think 
That  I  was  Jonah  and  must  be  cast  forth — 

That  she  was  verging  to  destruction's  brink 
Unless  she  gave  the  helpless  inmate  birth  ? 

Too  well  she  knew  that  I'd  no  call  to  preach 
The  joyful  news  of  righteousness  and  peace  ; 

She  knew  my  only  call  had  been  to  teach 

Some  Eastport  urchins  merely  for  the  fleece. 

And  knowing  this  she  clasped  me  to  her  breast, 
And  tried  my  sinking,  drooping  heart  to  cheer — 

Yes,  in  her  hammock  arms  1  might  had  rest 
Iladst  though  not  thundered  in  my  sea-sick  ear. 

But  more  than  this  :     As  I  lay  on  the  deck 
A  basking  in  the  sun's  meridian  rays, 

Thou  stretched  in  air  thy  huge  and  brawny  neck 
And  spewed  thy  briny  spittle  in  my  face. 

Rare  sport  for  thee  couldst  thou  have  laid  thy  hand 
Upon  my  form  and  chilled  me  in  thy  wave ; 

Or  bleached  me  for  a  season  on  thy  strand, 
And  then  consigned  me  to  a  watery  grave. 

Let  sailors  chant  thy  praise  in  thunder  tones, 
And  trust  their  fortunes  and  their  lives  to  thee, 

But  other  music  than  thy  death-like  moans. 
And  other  jovs  than  ocean  jovs  for  me  ! 

' 


3O2  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


APOSTROPHE  TO  A  GONG. 


They  say,  old  thunderer,  that  away  in  China, 
Some  thousand  miles  the  other  side  of  earth. 

Where  tea  is  grown  beyond  the  ocean  briny, 
Near  the  big  ancient  wall,  thou  hadst  thy  birth. 

If  true  or  not,  the  one  who  gave  thee  breath 
Ought  to  have  lived  until  he  starved  to  death. 

No  doubt  that  Chinaman  once  kept  an  inn. 

And  was  a  Shylock  and  a  hardened  sinner. 
Who,  for  the  sole  and  naked  thirst  for  "tin," 

Conspired  to  cheat  his  guests  of  half  a  dinner. 
And  so  the  old.  penurious,  wicked  sprite 

Invented  thee,  to  kill  the  appetite. 

Strange  that  the  love  of  gold  and  power  of  error 
Should  propagate  upon  the  human  brain. 

And  proffer  birth  to  such  a  child  of  terror, 
A  progeny  to  fill  the  world  with  pain, 

An  instrument  of  woe  that  only  serves 
To  furnish  torture  to  the  feeble  nerves. 


>f 

APOSTROPHE    TO    A    GOXG.  303 

I  fear  there  is  a  hell — our  Bibles  teach  it, 

And  reason,  conscience,  say  the  Bible  's  true, 

And  lettered  priests  in  every  nation  preach  it. 
Except  a  modern,  theoretic  few, 

Insurance  agents,  peddling  out  for  hire 
Sham  policies  against  eternal  fire. 

But  in  those  dark  and  foul  and  burning  regions. 

Where  direful  noises  echo  loud  and  long, 
There  is  no  sound  sent  forth  by  hellish  legions 

One  half  so  horrid  as  thy  noise,  oh  Gong. 
For  wild  and  fearful  though  their  howlings  be, 

They  are,  to  thine,  a  perfect  symphony. 


304  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


'BY  HOKEY,  THEM  IS  PRETTY  VERSES." 


WRITTEN    TO    SHOW     HOW     THE     STARCH      IS     SOMETIMES 

TAKEN    FROM    A    MAN*    WHO    READS    HIS    POETRY 

TO    OTHERS. 

Some  months  ago — so  says  my  notes — 

When  Sabbath's  brazen  bells  were  chiming, 

The  music  from  their  hollow  throats 

Induced  me  straight  to  take  to  rhyming. 

For  many  a  dreary  hour  I  sat, 

And  having  closed  poetic  labor, 
I  put  my  rhymes  within  my  hat 

And  started  for  the  nearest  neighbor. 

My  neighbor's  eldest  girl  I  knew 

Laid  claims  to  being  '•'•literary" 
So  to  her  father's  house  I  flew 

To  read  my  poetry  to  Mary. 

She  was  the  fairest  of  our  race, } 

Her  waist  was  small,  her  fingers  tapered, 

And  smiles  around  her  rosy  face 

Like  lambkins  'round  a  pasture  capered. 


BY    HOKEY,  THEM    IS    PRETTY    VERSES.  305 

I  read  of  war  and  read  of  peace, 
And  read  of  many  an  ancient  nation, — 

Of  ancient  Rome  and  ancient  Greece, 

And  thousand  things  throughout  creation. 

I  read  of  husband  and  of  wife — 

A  note  prepared  to  please  my  fairy — 
I  hinted  of  my  lonely  life 

And  of  the  witching  name  of  Mary. 

I  read  how  raven  eyes  encased 

A  dagger  for  each  trusting  lover, 
But  eyes  of  blue  and  slender  waist 

I  echoed  nearly  ten  times  over. 

I  closed  my  reading,  raised  my  eyes 

To  throw  me  on  her  tender  mercies, 
When  with  a  drowsy  yawn  she  cries, 

"By  hokcy,  them  is  pretty  -verses1." 

Within  my  hat  I  put  my  rhyme, 

And  raised  the  latch  and  left  my  fairy, 

But  never  have  I  since  that  time 
Read  pretty  poetry  to  Mary. 


306  POEMS    BY   DAVID    BARKER. 


CORXELE.* 


I  am  sick,  and  have  left  all  my  papers  and  laws, 

And  am  stopping  awhile  at  this  tavern  of  Shaw's ; 

And  I  take  what  a  prince  or  a  monarch  might  get — 

Just  the  best  of  a  meal  and  an  ars'nic  pellet — 

And  this  fact  should  come  in  :  I  was  here  you  should  know 

When  they  opened  this  house,  thirty-nine  years  ago. 

From  the  crowd  that  was  here  in  that  year,  '35, 

Not  a  soul  do  I  find  'round  this  mansion  alive, 

Not  a  man — not  a  one  do  I  find  here  about 

But  the  porter,  "Cornele,"  and  a  Judge  with  the  gout. 

Famed  Cornele"  with  his  brush  for  the  boot  or  the  blouse 

All  the  world  has  regarded  a  part  of  the  house. 

What  a  load  he  has  lugged  the  world's  baggage  among  ! 

For  the  garrulous  old  and  the  jubilant  young ; 

And  he  boasts  with  a  true  Celtic  pride  of  the  touch 

He  has  put  on  the  boots  of  a  Webster  and  such. 

And  to-day,  'mid  his  books,  right  in  earnest,  not  sport, 

I  have  talked  on  one  point  with  a  Judge  of  our  court — 

Ar>d  he  says  that  in  spite  of  old  statutes  or  creeds 

This  "Cornele"  should  now  pass  by  all  subsequent  deeds. 


V 


CORNKLE.  307 


When  his  last  load  is  borne  and  the  famed  porter  dies, 
I  would  carve  on  the  slab  at  the  spot  where  he  lies : 
Here  he  sleeps,  pardoned  out  from  the  last  of  his  sin, 
Ever  true  to  the  faith  of  his  priest  and  his  kin. 
Had  he  faults?     Let  the  world  gossip  round  as  it  can, 
He  has  blacked  and  has  brushed  and  has  lugged  likea  man. 
How  the  dream  chills  my  heart,  how  the  thought  makes 

me  feel, 

That  a  breath  may  blow  out  the  warm  lamp  of  "Cornele," 
Leaving  two,  only  two  from  that  big,  ancient  crowd, 
And  those  two  peering  'round  for  the  turf  and  the  shroud  ; 
One  a  pale,  haggard  bard — tottering  out  on  his  cane — 
And  the  other  the  Judge  on  his  hammock  of  pain. 

*Cornelius  Crowley,  for  39  years  head  porter  at  the  Bangor  House,  and  who 
died  in  1876. 


308  POEMS    BY   DAVID    BARKER. 


FIVE  STANZAS. 


Grasp  your  paddle,  take  your  boat, 
Row  the  course  you  think  is  best, 

But  you  shouldn't  face  the  east 
While  you  paddle  to  the  west, 

Never. 

Fight  for  virtue  or  for  vice 

On  your  passage  to  the  grave ; 

Never  sit  astride  the  fence  ; 
Be  an  honest  man  or  knave, 

Ever. 

Go  for  error  or  for  truth  ; 

Go  for  darkness  or  for  light ; 
Paint  your  flag  and  hang  it  out 

Be  it  black  or  be  it  white, 

Ever. 

Have  a  notion  of  your  own  ; 

Speak  that  notion  plain  and  flat ; 
Be  a  mouse  or  be  a  bird  ; 

Never  try  to  play  the  bat, 

Never. 

Never  ape  the  tad-pole,  man  ; 

Never  swim  around  incog. ; 
Oft*  with  tail  or  off  with  claws  ; 

Be  a  polliwog  or  frog, 

Ever. 


V 


FLOPDODDLE.  309 


FLOPDODDLE. 


How  strange  that  men,  and  women,  too, 
Will  strive  to  rack  the  noddle, 

And  use,  instead  of  Saxon  words, 
The  silliest  "flopdoddle." 

If  from  the  garner  of  your  lore 
You  wish  to  make  a  gleaning, 

Select  the  purest,  strongest  words, 
And  words  that  have  a  meaning. 

This  hunting  big  jaw-crackers  out 
From  Webster's  Dictionary, 

Will  never  serve,  my  foolish  friend, 
To  make  you  literary. 

This  chasing  for  a  pompous  term, 
As  hares  are  chased  by  beagle, 

Reminds  me  of  the  flight  and  fate 
Of  an  old  native  Ea<rle 


310  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

That  "soared  aloft"  one  summer's  day 

Above  her  common  ether — 
I  will  not  tell  how  high  she  flew, 

Nor  what  her  fate  was  neither. 

I  once  could  speak  some  Latin  words, 
Once  spoke  by  ancient  Roman — 

But  oh,  how  vain  to  slop  them  out 
On  every  man  and  woman. 

A  Priest  who  preached  one  Sabbath  past, 

(In  learning,  most  deficient) 
Instead  of  plainly  groaning,  Lord — 

Would  groan,  "Tnou  GREAT  OMNISCIENT." 

That  night,  a  stripling  said  to  me — 

"One  name  I  can't  get  hold  of, 
I  mean  that  long-named  gentleman 

That  Elder  Cooper  told  of." 


GOOD-BYE    TO    THE    LEGISLATURE.  31 1 


GOOD-BYE  TO  THE  LEGISLATURE.     1872. 


Now  as  we  speak  the  last  good-bye, 
One  thing  my  heart  insures, 
You've  left  no  scars  upon  my  soul, 
I  trust  I've  none  on  yours. 

We've  met  like  floating  planks  that  touch 
On  ocean,  lake  or  river, 
We  part  to  meet,  though  here  or  there, 
Within  that  vast  forever. 

And  when  that  meeting  comes  again, 
In  this  world  or  the  other, 
Each  shall  be  found  upon  my  list, 
Both  as  a  friend  and  brother. 


312  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


GREENNESS. 


'Tis  not  long  since  that  I  have  gained 

More  real,  useful  lore, 
Than  all  I  ever  gained  for  years, 

Say  twenty  years  before. 

I  used  to  think — good  Lord,  how  green 

Was  I  in  thinking  so  ! — 
That  all  said  yes  when  meaning  yes, 

And  no  when  meaning  no. 

I  used  to  think  that  pious  folks 

Were  folks  who  muttered  grace 
O'er  daily  bread  on  table  spread, 

And  wore  a  lengthy  face.  , 

I  used  to  think  that  Clergymen, 

Those  enemies  of  sin, 
Should  drive  out  knowledge  from  their  brains 

To  let  the  gospel  in. 

I  used  to  think  it  was  for  me 

To  scrutinize  and  scan, 
And  judge  the  pulsings  of  the  heart 

Within  a  brother  man. 


GREENNESS. 


I  used  to  think  in  silken  gown 

That  Modesty  was  drest, 
And  Virtue  in  a  bed  of  down 

Was  sure  to  make  her  nest. 

I  used  to  think  that  Editors, 

And  even  Preachers,  too, 
Could  live  like  Texan  frogs  and  fat 

On  nothing  but  the  dew. 

I  used  to  think  the  Doctor's  child, 

Whenever  it  was  ill, 
Was  cured  as  other  children  are, 

By  swallowing  a  pill. 

I  used  to  think  that  gentlemen 
Were  those,  and  only  those 

Who  sported  canes  and  golden  chains, 
And  dressed  in  broad-cloth  clothes. 

I  never  heard  that  rosy  cheeks 
Were  made  with  common  paint, 

That  maidens  looked  out  special  laps 
Before  they  tried  to  faint. 

I  never  knew,  till  late,  that  girls 
In  flaunting  gauze  could  feel 

So  much  at  home,  so  mighty  '•'•good" 
With  holes  in  stocking  heel. 

I  never  felt,  till  now,  how  vain 

It  is  to  squander  time 
In  pumping  fustian  from  the  brain 

For  building  fustian  rhyme. 


314  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


LINES. 

SUGGESTED    BY    WENDELL     PHILLIPS'    LECTURE     ON     THE 
LOST    ARTS. 


You  knew  that  brickyard  where  we  used  to  play, 
And  the  old  Lombard  horse  that  ground  the  clay  ; 

From  year  to  year  that  bobtail  nag  was  found 
Hitched  to  the  sweep  upon  his  clayey  round  ; 

And  a  new  horse,  you  know,  would  only  find 
The  marks  and  scenes  the  old  nag  left  behind. 

One  day  when  straddle  of  that  horse's  back — 
Proud  as  a  conquering  Roman  on  the  track, 

Filled  to  the  lips  with  hominy  and  bliss — 

1  had  this  dream,  which  Phillips  claims  as  his : 

Man  moves  in  circles — not  in  onward  lines — 
And  every  track  and  every  truth  he  finds, 

And  every  thought  that  makes  him  smile  or  weep 
Were  left  by  others  pulling  'round  the  sweep. 


. 


MY    BOY.  315 


MY  BOY. 

WRITTEN    UNDER    THE    STRANGE    HALLUCINATION    THAT 
MY    BOY    WALTER    WAS    DEAD. 

My  boy  is  dead —  oh,  sovereign  God  of  mercies 

Forgive  this  heart  of  mine 
For  sending  up  its  mingled  prayers  and  curses 

At  this  dark  doom  of  thine  ! 

My  noble,  lifeless  boy,  there  coldly  lying, 

Was  dearer  than  my  breath, 
And  my  deep  love  for  him  is  madly  trying 

To  scale  the  walls  of  death. 

I  vainly  dreamed  his  merry  peals  of  laughter 

Would  chase  away  my  fears, 
And  cheer  my  footsteps  'mid  Time's  brief  hereafter, 

Through  the  dim  mists  of  years. 

With  each  small  fault  he  had  a  thousand  graces 

Like  priceless  pearls  encased, 
lie  was  my  only  dear  and  blest  oasis 

Amid  life's  desert  waste. 

The  consolation  which  the  churchman  offers 

But  aggravates  my  woe, 
'Tis  but  the  solace  which  the  savage  proffers 

Around  his  tortured  foe. 

Until  upon  some  shore  of  death's  dark  river 

My  darling  boy  I  find, 
And  clasp  and  bind  him  to  my  heart  forever 

I  will  not  be  resigned. 


316  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


MEHETABEL  JUXKINS. 


How  dear  to  my  heart  is  Mehetabel  Junkins, 

When  chance  or  good  fortune  presents  her  to  view, 
She's  sweeter  than  sap  or  e'en  pies  made  of  pumpkins, 
And  the  loveliest  doughnut  the  world  ever  knew. 
Her  large  massy  head  and  the  curls  which  hung  by  it, 

The  profusion  of  which  no  poet  can  tell, 
Her  graceful  swan  neck  and  dimpled  chin  nigh  it, 
And  e'en  that  great  bustle  that  made  such  a  swell. 
That  well  quilted  bustle, 
That  monstrous  great  bustle, 
Mehetabel's  bustle  that  made  such  a  swell. 

Mehetabel  Junkins  I  hailed  as  a  treasure, 

For  often  at  noon  when  returned  from  the  field 
I  found  her  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 
The  sweetest  and  purest  that  nature  could  yield. 

How  often  I  seized  her  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 

When  quick  to  my  lap  she  '•'•reluctantly"  fell, 
And  finding  me  often  with  words  overflowing, 
In  whispers  angelic  she  answered,  '•'•du  tell" 
That  well  quilted  bustle, 
That  monstrous  great  bustle, 
Mehetabel's  bustle  that  made  such  a  swell. 


& 


MEHETABLE  JUNKINS. 


How  rich,  how  romantic  it  was  to  receive  it, 

A  kiss  from  the  curb  of  Mehetabel's  lips, 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it 
Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
A  sigh  will  now  often  escape  from  my  bosom, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  former  old  blossom, 

And  thinks  of  the  bustle  that  made  such  a  swell. 
That  well  quilted  bustle, 
That  monstrous  great  bustle, 
Mehetabel's  bustle  that  made  such  a  swell. 


318  POEMS   BY   DAVID   BARKER. 


MIDNIGHT  MELODIES    ON    BOAR-STONE 
MOUNTAIN. 


In  the  lone  mid-night  here  with  Nymphus  Bodfish, 

My  pilot  brave  and  true, 
By  aid  of  Java,  hard  bread,  pork  and  cod-fish, 

1  strike  my  harp  for  you. 

In  the  cold  dark  we  feel  the  damp  mists  creeping 
O'er  whitening  beards  and  scalps, 

And  hear  around  us  the  '''•live  thunder'''  leaping — 
As  Byron  near  the  Alps. 

We  see  above,  the  famed  old  Ursa  Major, 

Lit  by  siderial  lamps, 
Circling  around,  as  for  a  race-course  wager, 

On  his  eternal  tramps. 

Tell  me,  ye  stars,  upon  my  bed  of  granite, 
Made  up  with  care  and  pain, 

Is  there  not  near  you  some  nice,  quiet  planet 
For  weary  heart  and  brain, 

Some  outside  lot,  cleared  out  from  sham  and  fiction, 
From  rhymes  and  troubles  clear, 

Where  shattered  nerves  may  shun  the  fearful  friction, 
They  often  meet  with  here? 

No  matter,  now,  for  I  will  not  aspire, 

Nor  risk  a  tougher  curse, 
For  oft  I  find  in  trying  to  climb  higher, 

Our  troubles  ma    be  worse. 


SAXON    PLUCK.  319 


SAXON  PLUCK. 


Oh,  that  some  power  would  make  and  sell 

A  different  ink  and  pen, 
That  I  might  truly  write  and  tell 

About  one  kind  of  men. 


A  set  that's  always  sure  to  pass, 
And  worlds  can't  wag  without  'em- 

A  "yes-sir,"  "no-sir,"  dodging  class, 
With  no  back-bone  about  'em. 


A  scraping,  bowing  kind  of  folks, 
Who  o'er  the  rounds  are  going, 

And  always  watching  weather-cocks 
To  see  how  winds  are  blowing. 


If  you  hate  colored  gentlemen, 
And  think  yourselves  above  'em, 

'Tis  just  as  well  to  say  so,  then, 
As  'tis  to  say  you  love  'em. 


32O  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Or  think  that  slavery  is  worse 

Than  any  other  evil : 
A  filching,  eating,  mildew  curse 

Begotten  by  the  devil ; 

Then  loose  your  tongues  and  talk  it  out, 
And  let  the  Hunkers  howl, — 

No  man  is  fit  to  be  about 
Who  trembles  at  a  growl. 

Or,  if  you  say  and  truly  think 

A  statute,  touching  toddy 
Is  worse  than  certain  pauper  drink 

Which  kills  the  soul  and  body, 

Repeal  the  law  or  raise  a  storm, 
And  pass  around  the  "Cag," 

But  do  not  shield  your  brandy  form 
Behind  a  temperance  flag. 

But  if  you  take  the  other  tack, 
And  say  the  law  should  stand, 

And  if  you  know  it  sluices  back 
Damnation  from  the  land, 

Sustain  the  act  in  spite  of  knocks, 

And  keep  away  the  sin, 
Though  you  must  wade  to  ballot-box 

In  purple  to  the  chin. 


SAXON    PLUCK.  321 


But  if  you  haven't  got  the  nerve, 

An  honest  hand  to  show, 
If  you  TV  ill  quiver,  nod  and  swerve, 

Like  saplings  in  a  blow  ; 

Your  hobbies  fix  and  stand  between, 

And  buckle  if  you  must, 
But  mind  it,  men,  'tis  shocking  mean 

To  be  a  lapping  dust. 

Far  better,  far,  it  is  to  say, 
We  will  not  curve  the  back, 

Though  pestilence  shall  hedge  our  way 
And  sword  be  on  our  track. 

I  saw  a  temperance  talker  once 

Embrace  a  stupid  bloat, 
And  dicker  with  the  loathsome  dunce 

For  what? — to  get  his  vote  ! 

Methought  I'd  sooner  bend  my  knees 

To  idols  in  the  east 
Than  trim  my  sails  to  catch  the  breeze 

Which  blew  from  such  a  beast. 

A  spotless  life  is  not  my  toast, 

I  never  had  the  luck 
Of  being  pure — then  let  me  boast 

Of  good  old  SAXON  PLUCK. 


332  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


STEAMBOAT  KNITTING. 


On  the  24th  of  August,  A.  D.  \8f>3.  an  aged  widow,  fully  clad  in  mourning 
sat  quietly  and  busily  engaged  in  knitting  a  stocking  in  the  saloon  of  the  Steamer 
Penobscot,  on  her  passage  from  Belfast  to  Bangor.  I  observed,  to  my  astonish 
ment,  two  young  women,  gorgeously  decked,  pointing  and  laughing  at  the  old 
lady  with  her  knitting  work.  One  of  the  maidens  referred  to  had  a  large  hole 
in  the  heel  of  her  stocking.  The  foregoing  incident  suggested  the  following 
lines : — 


Knit  on — let  "moderns"  giggle  if  they  will — 
Knit  on,  nor  squander  thine  allotted  time  ; 

Knit  on,  old  matron,  and  my  poet's  quill 

Shall  tell  thy  virtues  in  these  measured  rhymes. 

Despite  of  idiot  laugh  and  pointless  joke 

I  love  to  see  thee  at  thy  knitting-work. 

Thou  'mind'st  me  of  those  stormy  days,  old  Dame, 
When  toil  like  thine  was  honored  more  than  now, 

When  stockingless,  through  blood  and  frost  and  flame, 
Our  fathers  won  fresh  laurels  for  the  brow  ; 

When  "Mother  Bailey"  raised  her  warring  notes 

And  furnished  wadding  from  her  petticoats.     • 


STEAMBOAT    KNITTING.  323 

-» 

When  girls  were  made  to  "draw"  with  handle  mop 
In  "water  colors,"  o'er  unfinished  room, 

And  taught,  on  washing  day  the  "waltzing  hop," 
And  learned  their  ''music"  at  the  wheel  and  loom  ; 

When  silk  or  satin,  or  the  flaunting  gauze 

Was  bad  to  milk  in  when  the  cows  were  cross. 


When  man  of  brain  could  triumph  o'er  his  birth, 
When  all  but  monkeys  shaved  their  upper  lips, 

When  error  met  by  truth  was  "crushed  to  earth" 
When  lodge-room  was  the  only  place  for  "grips," 

When  boys  had  fathers  (now  they  have  a  "Pa") 

And  lived  a  space  'twixt  nursing  and  cigar. 


I  hate  to  see  the  meanest  reptile  die, 

I  hate  a  fop,  I  hate  a  mincing  prude  ; 
I  hate  the  fret  of  saw-dust  in  my  eye ; 

I  hate  a  thief,  I  hate  ingratitude  ; 
But  from  mine  inmost  soul  far  worse  than  all 
I  hate  a  sneering  o'er  the  sweat  of  toil, 
And  worse  than  sin  I  hate  the  wretch  that  leads 
The  van  to  taunt  a  widow  in  her  weeds ; 
I  loathe  the  wretch — if  for  no  reason  other, 
I  have  mvself  a  stricken,  widowed  mother. 


324  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


TEA-CHESX  LEAD. 


Hold  on,  my  friends,  and  hear  me  tell 

A  tale  without  a  sermon — 
Perhaps  you  know  George  Brackett  well, 

Beneath  the  hill  at  Hermon. 


Perhaps  you  may,  or  may  not  know 

A  fact  I  simply  mention, — 
That  Brackett  went  some  years  ago 

To  a  fat  man's  convention.* 

The  winner  of  the  prize  could  boast 

As  fifty  dollars  richer, 
For  he  who  sat  and  weighed  the  most 

Could  claim  a  silver  pitcher. 

A  fat  one  from  the  old  Bay  State, 

(May  conscience  never  grip  him) 
Learned,  somehow,  of  George  Brackett's  weight, 

And  so  prepared  to  tip  him. 


!  K.\-l  III.ST    LEAD.  325 

He  quilted,  so  they  say,  to  beat 

Our  honest  friend,  Geo.  Brackett, 
Some  tea-chest  lead  in  his  trousers'  seat 

Just  even  with  his  jacket. 

And  don't  you  think  the  man — by  zounds, — 

To  make  himself  the  richer. 
Tipped  Brackett  just  two  single  pounds 

And  scooped  the  silver  pitcher ! 

MORAL. 

Be  true  and  honest  if  you  can. 

Seek  always  the  defensive, 
Keep  peace  with  self,  and  peace  with  man, 

With  peace  not  too  expensive. 

But  in  life's  combats,  stern  and  tough, 

In  attic,  palace,  cellar^- 
\Vhen  using  lead,  melt  lead  enough 

To  fetch  the  other  fellow. 


*Lewi«ton. 


-k. 


V 


326  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  LION  AND  THE  SKUNK. 


A    DREAM. 

I  met  a  lion  in  my  path, 

('Twas  on  a  dreary  autumn  night) 
Who  gave  me  the  alternative 

To  either  run  or  fight. 

I  dare  not  turn  upon  the  track, 
I  dare  not  think  to  run  away 

For  fear  the  lion  at  my  back 
Would  seize  me  as  his  prey. 

So,  summoning  a  fearless  air, 

Though  all  my  soul  was  full  of  fright, 
I  said  unto  the  forest  king, 

"I  will  not  run  but  fight ." 

We  fought,  and  as  the  fates  decreed, 
I  conquered  in  the  bloody  fray, 

For  soon  the  lion  at  my  feet 
A  lifeless  carcass  lay. 


THE    LION   AND    THE    SKUNK.  327 

A  little  skunk  was  standing  by 

And  noted  what  the  lion  spoke, 
And  when  he  saw  the  lion  die 

The  lion's  tracks  he  took. 

He  used  the  lion's  very  speech, 

For,  stretching  to  his  utmost  height, 

He  gave  me  the  alternative 
To  either  run  or  fight. 

I  saw  he  was  prepared  to  fling 

Fresh  odors  from  his  bushy  tail, 
And  knew  those  odors  very  soon 

My  nostrils  would  assail. 


So  summoning  a  humble  air, 

Though  all  my  soul  was  free  from  fright, 
I  said  unto  the  dirty  skunk, 

"I'll  run  but  will 


MORAL. 


As  years  begin  to  cool  my  blood, 
I  rather  all  would  doubt  my  spunk 

Than  for  a  moment  undertake 
To  fight  a  human  skunk. 


328 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  4TH  OF  JULY  AT  BELFAST,  1853. 


My  Muse,  oh  grant  me  one  desire : 
My  lips  and  heart  and  pen  inspire, 
(I  ask  for  this  and  nothing  higher, 

As  poets  all  do,) 
And  aid  me  while  I  touch  the  lyre 

For  "bleeding  Waldo." 

In  fancy's  paths  I  will  not  stray 
Through  haunted  fields  and  woods  away 
To  conjure  up  some  doleful  lay 

To  move  your  pity, 
But  sing  of  Freedom's  natal  day 

In  Belfast  city. 

A  city  famed  throughout  the  world, 
Not  for  its  diamonds,  shells  or  pearls, 
But  as  a  place  where  Cupid  hurls 

His  sharpest  lances, 
And  as  a  town  for  handsome  girls 

And  Polka  dances. 


THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY  AT  BELFAST.          329 

The  clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
O'er  vale  and  hill  and  mountain  "run." 
To  notify  each  freeborn  son 

With  joy  elate, 
To  flee  to  town  like  Goth  and  Hun 

To  "celebrate." 

The  folks  flocked  in  of  every  name — 
The  country  girl  and  country  dame 
At  earliest  blink  of  morning  came 

Brimful  of  glee  ; 
Well  aproned  up  to  fan  the  flame 

Of  Liberty- 

And  men  were  there  who  wooed  the  Nine, 
And  men  were  there  with  grip  and  sign, 
And  men  who  dripped  with  ocean's  brine, 

Men  true  and  bold. 
Who  brave  the  dangers  of  the  line 

In  quest  of  gold. 

And  men  were  there  of  every  grade — 

The  upper  ten  and  men  of  trade, 

And  men  who  wield  the  axe  and  spade, 

And  those  who  won't  try, 
All  under  obligations  laid 

To  serve  their  countrv. 

V 


330 


POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


"Costumers"  ancT'kFantastics,"  too, 
Were  there  in  dress  of  every  hue, 
In  every  shade  of  green  and  blue  ; 

With  swordless  hands, 
They  would  have  routed  Roderick  Dhu 

And  all  his  clans. 

Then  Priest  with  solemn,  lengthened  face 
Besought  for  Heaven's  special  grace 
On  all  of  every  rank  and  case, 

On  rich  and  needy, 
And  e'en  on  that  discovered  race,* 

By  "Rough  and  Ready."f 

Next  came  the  Governor's  oration, — 
A  lengthy,  learned  dissertation 
Upon  the  duties  of  the  nation, 

And  sad  condition, 
Which  ended  by  a  sly  flirtation 

With  Abolition. 


There  sat  Machias,  calmly  gazing, 
Though  Federal  guns  were  fiercely  blazing, 
And  Federal  balls  his  claws  were  grazing, 

He  took  it  cool 

Until  he  found  his  foe  was  raising 
The  price  of  wool. 


% 


XT 

THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY  AT  BELFAST.         33 1 

For  round  and  round  passed  leer  and  wink — 
(Bad  theme  for  poet's  "crambo  clink"  ) 
But  Pillsbury  sat  and  looked  like  link 

'Twixt  wolf  and  lamb, 
And  doubtless  thought  as  Dutchmen  think, 

He  thought  "Cot  Tarn." 

At  length  the  welcome,  joyous  sound 
Of  "dinner  hour"  was  passed  around, 
And  quick  to  board  the  natives  bound 

With  one  accord, 
When  every  Epicure  was  found 

To  worship  God. 

When  evening's  sable  curtains  fell, 
From  fire-works  there  came  forth  a  smell 
Of  which  no  pen  can  truly  tell — 

But  this  was  sure, 
They  tried  to  represent  a  hell 

In  miniature. 

Then  to  the  hall  the  people  go 

To  trip  the  light  fantastic  toe, 

Where  like  fond  sisters,  belle  and  beau 

With  loving  glance 
Embrace — to  lead  each  other  through 

The  mazy  dance. 

— V 


332  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

/ 

Beauty  was  there  with  rounded  arm. 
With  lips  of  rose  and  breath  of  balm, 
Possessed  of  every  pleasing  charm 

Which  God  had  given, 
Whose  angel  looks  would  quick  disarm 

The  wrath  of  heaven. 

And  girls  were  there  of  different  tastes. 
With  monstrous  small  and  monstrous  waists, 
Some  cloudy,  others  sunny  faced — 

Some  plain,  some  fair — 
All  scented,  slippered,  decked  and  laced 

With  choicest  care. 

And  some  were  there  whom  I  espied 
So  near  to  youth  and  age  allied 
You  could  not  call  them  girl  or  bride 

In  any  sense — 
They  were  like  blank  leaves  which  divide 

The  Testaments. 

When  tolled  the  tongue  of  churchman's  bell 
"Some  wee  short  hours  ayont  the  twal,'' 
Reluctantly  I  took  mysel' 

To  Morpheus'  lair  ; 
So  many  things  I  cannot  tell 

,  Which  happened  there. 

*'4The  rest  of  mankind." 
fG-eneral  Taylor. 


THE    HAMMER    AND    THE    ANVIL.  333 


THE  HAMMER  AND  THE  ANVIL. 


Improve  your  hour  as  best  you  may, 
Keep  up  your  fitful  clamor  ; 

I  chance  to  be  the  anvil  now, 
You  chance  to  be  the  hammer. 

Although  to  deal  the  heaviest  stroke 
Your  heated  nerves  are  straining, 

The  thinking,  passive  anvil  gives 
No  token  of  complaining. 

Although  the  falling  hammer  now 
The  dented  face  is  scorning, 
Your  patient  anvil  in  its  ring 

Sends  forth  this  note  of  warning: — 

Remember,  'mid  your  causeless  blows, 
Remember,  'mid  your  clamor, 

You  yet  may  be  the  anvil,  boys, 
And  I  may  be  the  hammer. 


\ 


334  POEMS    BY   DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  LEVANT  CONVENTION. 


Air— "Old  Oaken  Bucket:' 

The  Federal  Convention  we  all  shall  remember 

As  long  as  our  pulses  continue  to  beat, 
When  the  Whigs  formed  a  league  to  prepare  for  September 

And  hoped  by  that  movement  to  make  us  retreat. 

But  when  they  can  stop  a  Niagara's  thunder, 
Or  stay  the  fierce  comet  by  grasping  its  tail, 

Or  by  spouting  can  rend  Mt.  Katahdin  asunder, 
'Tis  then  they  can  make  these  old  Democrats  quail. 

CHORUS. 

Oh,  the  Federal  Convention. 
The  Tory  Convention, 
The  Federal  Convention  they  held  at  Levant. 

At  nine  in  the  morning  their  forces  they  rally, 
And  choose  for  commander  Hibernian  Pat — 

With  pony  from  Shetland  and  sprig  of  Shillalah 

He  rode  through  the  phalanx  while  each  doffed  his  hat. 


i — ?r 

THE    LEVANT    CONVENTION'.  335 


At  ten  the  old  hay-rack  from  Brewer  approaches, 
Pat  says  to  the  gentry,  "Let's  give  it  a  cheer." 

No  sooner  he  spoke  than  they  sprang  from  their  coaches 
And  shouted, "Long  live  the  young  Brewer  cashier." 


/  CHORUS. 

Oh,  the  Federal  Convention,  etc. 

All  having  arrived,  they  then  formed  a  procession, 
Both  farmers  and  loafers,  and  demagogues,  too, 

But  the  hay-rack  was  filled  with  the  men  of  profession 
Who  guarded  the  standard  of  Tippecanoe. 


They  furnished  the  landlord  with  funds  to  enable 
Him  amply  to  entertain  half  of  the  State, 

But  when  the  bell  tolled  and  all  rushed  for  the  table, 
There  were  600  tickets,  but  400  plates. 


CHORUS 

Oh,  the  Federal  Convention,  etc. 

A  motion  for  holding  an  extra  convention 

Was  ottered  by  those  thus  deprived  of  their  seat, 

But  the  Marshal  from  Cork  then  called  out  for  attention, 
And  soon  they  devoured  all  the  "pratees"  and  meat. 

H 


33^  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Hard  cider  was  wanting — they  called  for  some  liquor — 
The  waiter  was  tardy — impatient  they  sat, 

Their  patience  exhausted  they  cried  out,  "Move  quicker, 
We  wish  to  imbibe  to  Hibernian  Pat." 


CHORUS. 
Oh,  the  Federal  Convention,  etc. 

The  gin  being  brought  they  all  gladly  receive  it, 

With  the  speed  of  forked  lightning  it  came  to  their  lips, 

'•Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  them  to  leave  it" 
Though  filled  with  hard  cider  that  Harrison  sips. 

They  ate,  drank  and  guzzled  the  space  of  an  hour, 
And  getting  quite  balmy  concluded  that  each 

Should  cease  to  imbibe  and  repair  to  the  bower 
And  listen  to  Evans  while  making  a  speech. 


CHORUS. 
Oh,  the  Federal  Convention,  etc. 

Their  Cooly  then  offered  some  long  resolutions, 
No  doubt  for  his  labor  expecting  his  pay, 

And  ended  by  saying,  ki\Ve  need  contributions 
To  aid  us  in  settling  the  bills  of  the  day." 


% 


V 


THE    LEVANT    CONVENTION.  337 

Their  Allen,  of  Bangor,  some  two  hours  spouted, 
In  which  he  depicted  the  fate  of  us  all, 

And  told  them  that  Locos  must  ere  long   be  routed 
If  they  wished  to  elect  "Ed"  and  "Tip"  in  the  Fall. 

CHORUS. 

Oh,  the  Federal  Convention,  etc. 

But  finding  despite  of  Penobscot  exertions 

Their  old  Federal  Ship  would  soon  suffer  a  wreck, 

Their  alternative  was  to  leave  by  desertion 
Or  call  on  their  Evans  from  old  Kennebec. 

He  rose  from  the  altar  on  which  he  was  seated 
Like  a  lion  when  shaking  the  dew  from  his  mane 

And  says,  "My  friends,  if  in  the  Fall  you're  defeated 
I  never  will  make  you  a  speechment  again." 

CHORUS. 
Oh,  the  Federal  Convention,  etc. 

In  the  course  of  his  harangue  he  gave  them  this  warning : 
"My  brethren  keep  watch,  for  I  really  opine 

These  Locos  will  hook  all  your  pork  before  morning, 
For  I  swear  I  can  hear  the  dripping  of  brine." 

The  speech  being  ended,  they,  without  dissension, 
Retired  from  the  grove  and  repaired  to  the  Inn, 

And  agreed  that  they  never  would  leave  the  Convention 
Until  they  had  drunk  up  Joe's  barrel  of  gin. 

CHORUS. 
Oh,  the  Federal  Convention,  etc. 


u 


V 


338  POEMS    BY   DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  MEADOW-KING  MOWER. 


My  Muse,  if  you  know  her, 

You  know  is  no  blower, 

But  the  Meadow-King  Mower 

Kept  at  Winterport,  Maine, 
By  one  Atwood  — 'tis  said, 
(And  I  think  it  is  Fred) 
Has  excited  my  Muse, 
And  I  cannot  refuse 

To  indulge  her  again — 
Just  to  jump  on  behind 

While  I  mount  old  Pegasus  with  saddle  and  rein 
And  tell  you  our  mind 
Of  the  Meadow-King  Mower 

Kept  at  Winterport,  Maine. 
One  day  as  I  sat 

Looking  over  the  list  of  the  traps  that  old  Noah 
Once  had  in  his  ark  as  it  twisted  its  wheel 

And  it  rested  its  keel 
Upon  old  Ararat ; 
I  found  that  old  Noah 

Had  just  such  a  gear 
\ 


THE    MEADOW-KING    MOWER.  339 

As  the  Meadow-King  Mower — 

Now  it  ain't  at  all  queer, 
For  the  Lord  (it  is  said) 

Helped  him  pack  in  the  ark  all  the  things  that  he  had  : 
And  he  knew  that  old  Noah, 
When  the  waters  slacked  down 
Through  each  village  and  town 
Would  want  such  a  gear  as  the  Meadow-King  Mower. 

Now  one  night  after  dark 

When  old  Noah  and  his  crew  were  unloading  the  ark, 
I  find  that  old  Noah 
Lost  the  Meadow-King  Mower. 
It  is  strange  that  this  gear  ever  turned  up  again, 
But  'twas  found  while  ago  by  this  Atwood  of  Maine 

One  day  as  he  sat 

Looking  over  the  traps  upon  old  Ararat, 
Which  Noah  and  his  boys  lost  that  night  after  dark 
On  old  mount  Ararat  from  the  deck  of  his  ark  ; 
So,  believe  what  I  say — that  the  Lord  and  old  Noah 
Helped    Fred  Atwood,  of  Maine,  to  this  Meadow-King 

Mower. 

Now  with  facts  like  the  facts  I  have  given  you  know, 
Shall  you  ever  think  strange  that  this  Mower  can  mow? 
Shall  you  ever  think  strange  that  this  Mower  is  best, 
And  by  the  help  of  the  Lord  it  can  beat  all  the  rest, 
All  your  earthly  machines — all  excepting  the  one — 
The  old  rhyming  machine  that  my  Muse  and  I  run? 

The  foregoing  was  written  and  sent  to  Fred  Atwood,  Winterport,  in  aniwer 
to  his  letter  requesting  me  to  write  Home  lines  on  his  Mcailou   Kinir  Mower. 


340  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  REFORM  SCHOOL. 


WRITTEN   AND    READ    AT    AN    OFFICIAL    VISIT     TO     THE 

BOYS    AT    THE    REFORM    SCHOOL,    AT    CAPE 

ELIZABETH. 

We  come  to  you  with  fleeting  powers, 

You  little  types  of  man, 
And  find  your  school  is  just  like  ours, 

But  on  a  smaller  plan. 

This  lower  world  in  which  we  dwell, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  storm, 
The  blending  of  a  heaven  and  hell 

Was  made  for  our  reform. 

And  every  mortal  here  will  find, 

Whatever  path  he  takes, 
Though  in  the  school  of  yours  or  mine 

Some  bill  for  his  mistakes. 


Whatever  may  be  said  or  sung, 

Though  paid  by  tears  or  gold, 
/  The  payment  for  mistakes  when  young 
Is  better  than  when  old. 


THE    SIX    FELLOWS  341 


THE  SIX  FELLOWS.1 


'Twas  yesterday —  or  day  before — 

I  and  a  country  cousin 
Saw  six  grave  fellows  on  a  seat, 

(Near  Haifa  "baker  s  dozen.") 

'Twas  latish  in  the  afternoon, 
And  rather  chilly  weather — 

So  these  six  fellows  in  a  box 
Were  huddled  up  together. 

Now  some  of  them  would  talk  aloud,  • 
And  some  of  them  would  mutter, 

And  some  of  them  were  lank  and  lean, 
And  some  were  fat  as  butter. 


Another  fellowj — 'cause  the  seat 
Wan't  wide  enough  to  hold  him — 

Sat  near,  and  with  a  pen  wrote  down 
What  these  six  fellows  told  him. 


4f 


342  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

Two  other  fellows  with  the  six 
Make  eight,  when  all  together ; 

Perhaps  these  fellows  staid  away 
Because  'twas  rainy  weather. 

I  noticed  those  six  fellows  there — 
Who  in  a  kind  of  line  were — 

Wore  merely  middling  kind  of  clothes, 
And  not  so  good  as  mine  were. 

They  sat  and  looked  upon  some  books 
I  think  they  call  them  dockets  ; 

They  had  no  blacking  on  their  boots, 
Xo  watches  in  their  pockets. 

I  gazed  upon  those  fellows  there, 

And  as  the  twilight  streamed  off, 
Strange  fancies  flittered  thro'  my  brain 

Few  mortals  ever  dreamed  of; 
* 
For  these  six  fellows  hold  a  power — 

A  power  for  good  or  evil — 
Which  analyzed  and  understood 

Would  fright  the  very  devil. 

For  soon  these  fellows  separate 
And  scoot  about  to  try  us  ; 

The  place  they  go  I  most  forget, 
But  think  'tis  '•'•Nisi  Prius" 


THE    SIX   FELLOWS.  343 

And  if  one  fellow  makes  a  bull, 

And  we  poor  fellows  feel  it, 
They  have  a  right  to  meet  again, 

And  have  the  power  to  heal  it. 

The  dog  you  love,  the  horse  you  drive, 

The  gold  mines  you  are  selling, 
The  hut  where  shivering  children  sleep, 

The  palace  that  you  dwell  in  ; 

The  loaf  now  steaming  for  a  meal, 
The  quill-wheel,  or  your  carriage  ; 

The  baby  mewling  in  your  lap, 
The  wife  you  won  at  marriage  ; 

The  last  memento,  dear  as  breath, 

By  some  departed,  given — 
Love's  golden  chain,  forged  out  by  death, 

To  link  this  life  with  heaven- 
Some  knavish  whelp  may  up  and  claim 

Before  the  sun  has  risen, 
And  these  six  fellows  on  that  bench 

Have  power  to  say  their  "hisen." 

Grave,  worthy  seniors,  just  one  word — 

You,  on  that  seat  together — 
You  counting  six,  and  with  the  two, 

Now  tell  me  frankly  whether 


344  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 

You  deem,  because  you  have  the  right 
To  stop  the  bells  from  chiming, 

And  have  the  power  to  take  one's  breath 
That  you  can  stop  my  rhyming? 

Sage  men,  a  private  word  with  you — 

You,  on  that  seat  together — 
You,  of  the  six,  and  with  the  two, 

Once  more,  now  tell  me  whether 

With  all  your  Courtly  wisdom  here, 

And  all  your  power  for  terrors, 
There  may  not  be  some  higher  Power — 

Some  upper  "Court  of  Errors?" 

*Published  in  Bangor  Daily  Whig  and  Courier,  accompanied  by  the  follow 
ing  remarks  by  the  editor: — "The  following  impromptu  lines  were  dashed  off 
by  their  witty  and  gifted  author  during  a  few  lounging  minutes  in  the  Court 
room,  the  other  afternoon,  where  six  judges  were  holding  a  Law  term." 

fReporterof  Decisions. 


THE   THIRD   CREMATION*  345 


THE  THIRD  CREMATION. 


AN    INCIDENT   OF   THE    BELFAST    FIRE,    SEPT.,    1873. 

Joseph  Dennett,  sit  down  with  me  here  on  this  rock, 
Rest  your  legs  and  your  heai't  while  you  list  to  my  talk, 
Keep  the  smoke  from  my  eyes  while  I  read  you  my  rhyme, 
Take  a  lunch  from  my  box  in  exchange  for  your  time. 
What !  Dennett,  see  there — why,  that  looks  some  to  me 
Like  the  cellar  and  well,  where  your  home  used  to  be — 
And  the  knoll  where  that  burnt,  broken  bureau  is  laid, 
Why,  it  looks  like  the   spot  where  your   children  once 
played. 

Twice  before, 
Twice  before 
I  have  stood  at  your  door 
When  each  bell  in  the  spire 
Screamed  '•'•the  city's  a-jire!" 
First  on  that  wild  night  in  the  years  long  ago, 
(You  remember,  I  know,  ) 
When  with  borrowed  horse  dray 
I  bore  swiftly  away 
The  warm  couch  where  you  lay — 


346  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


When  those  fire  demons  came 
With  their  tongues  all  aflame, 

And  they  poured  and  they  swashed  their  red  lava  like  rain, 
And  as  roof  after  roof  disappeared  from  the  sight, 
I  remember  those  fiends — how  they  rollicked  that  night ! 
But  your  walls,  they  were  brick, 
And  your  walls,  they  were  thick — 
So  you  lined  up  your  charred,  gutted  castle  again  ; 

But  now,  my  tired  man, 

They  have  scooped  and  have  cleaned  you  clear  down   to 
the  pan. 

Joseph  Dennett,  sit  still,  and  don't  hurry  one  mite, 
For  I  wish  to  know  more  of  this  singular  fight — 

Of  this  fight  against  odds 

With  the  demons  or  gods. 

Say,  what  have  you  done,  and  pray  what,have  you  said  ? 
Have  you  wronged  the  live  living,  have  you  wronged  the 

cold  dead? 

I  believe  in  the  warm,  fervent  prayer  of  the  priest, 
And  believe  in  my  mother's  worn  bible,  at  least ; 
I  believe  while  we  dwell  and  we  grope  in  the  form 
It  behooves  us  to  bow  now  and  then  to  the  storm  ; 
But  ah,  there  are  times  when  the  blows  are  too  tough — 
When  the  cold,  stolid  granite  is  battered  enough ; 
There  are  times  when  the  act  would  be  cowardly  weak 
To  incline  to  the  smiter  the  opposite  cheek — 

So,  old  Craftsman,  your  ear, 


THE    THIRD    CREMATION. 


And  a  word  on  the  Square, 
If  you're  honest,  before  I  would  buckle  one  hair 
To  the  Powers  in  the  skies  or  the  regions  below 
I  would  stand  up  alone  in  your  desolate  woe, 
And  would  say  to  those  powers   who  have  scooped  you 

so  clean, 
What   in  heaven  do  you  want — tell  me  square  what  you 

mean  ; 

Must  you  go?  but  a  word  to  the  close  of  my  rhyme, 
Take  the  rest  of  my  lunch  and  this  scrip  for  your  time. 


— ^Jt 

X 

POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


THE  WHEAT  AND  THE  TARES. 


Oh,  'tis  many  a  year, 
In  the  country,  up  here, 

Since  the  wheat  and  the  tares 
Grew  together  in  pairs — 
Like  a  sister  and  brother, 
Like  a  father  and  mother — 
Without  one  or  the  other 
Always  "putting  on  airs." 

Then  when  the  storm  came, 
And  the  big  thunder  hurled 
Many  a  bolt  at  the  world, 

Then  the  wheat  and  the  tares, 

Growing  timid,  appalled, 
And  forgetting  each  name 

By  which  they  were  called, 
And  forgetting  the  threat 

As  to  which  should  be  burned, 
They  each  to  the  other 

Instinctively  turned. 

Yes,  the  wheat  and  the  tares, 
In  the  midst  of  their  fright, 
'Mid  the  gloom  of  the  night, 
Leaned  on  to  each  other — 
Like  a  sister  and  brother, 
Like  a  father  and  mother — 
Without  one  or  the  other 

Even  "putting  on  airs." 

^  


TO    GOVERNOR    CONEY.  349 


TO  GOVERNOR  CONEY, 


OR    HOW    DO    WE    STAND. 


One  quarter  century  ago, 

When  both  were  fresh  and  new, 

Perhaps  the  anxious  world  should  know 
I  studied  law  with  you. 

Since  then,  for  pleasure  or  for  pain, 
We're  fallen  on  strange  times, 

You  left  the  law  to  govern  Maine, 
And  I  to  scribble  rhymes. 

Now  Judge,  or  rather  Governor, 

Suppose  each  of  us  tries 
To  find,  in  equity  or  law, 

Where  most  the  honor  lies. 

If  on  your  side,  state  the  amount, 

And  if  Pegasus  goes, 
I'll  quickly  square  the  whole  account 

With  any  words  but  prose. 

If  on  my  side,  just  let  it  be — 

I'll  call  some  future  day 
And  take  the  balance  coming  me 

In  any  place  'twill  pay. 


35O  POEMS    BY   DAVID    BARKER. 


TO  THE  RABBLE. 


I  have  not  time  nor  strength  to  stroll 

And  visit  all  your  clan, 
And  tell  you  how,  through  all  my  soul, 

I  loathe  you,  man  by  man. 

Then  let  me  quickly  clutch  my  quill 

And  steep  its  every  part 
In  gall  and  wormwood  which  distil 

So  freely  from  my  heart. 

Perhaps  by  giggling  at  the  words 
Which  leak  from  out  your  throats, 

And  mixing  with  your  slimy  herds 
A  man  might  get  your  votes. 

But  should  you  ever  use  my  name 

Upon  your  ballots  given, 
I  would  not,  if  elected,  claim 

A  seat,  though  'twas  in  heaven. 


TO   THE    RABBLE.  351 

I  do  not  draw  the  rabble  line 

'Twixt  wale  and  broad-cloth  folks, 

For  thousand  hearts  have  beat  with  mine 
Beneath  old  homespun  frocks. 

And  men  are  found,  but  knaves  incog., 

Tricked  oft'  from  crown  to  feet, 
Than  whom  I'd  sooner  trust  my  dog 

To  bring  me  in  my  meat. 

Put  trappings  on  and  still  your  throng, 

By  one  test  may  be  known — 
While  Right  lies  bleeding,  crushed  by  Wrong, 

Ye  always  mock  her  groan. 

I  sometimes  fear  it  is  a  lie 

To  say  the  Bible's  true — 
It  staggers  faith  that  God  should  die 

For  scoundrels  such  as  vou. 


x 

352  POEMS    BY    DAVID    BARKER. 


TOUCH  NOT  THE  BOWL. 


Touch  not  the  bowl — beware  the  risk 
Though  joy  attends  the  minute, 

More  deadly  than  the  basilisk 
A  serpent  lurks  within  it ; 

Touch  not  the  bowl. 


Scorn  not  the  wine-cup's  fearful  power, 
Thy  hopes,  that  draught  is  killing, 

That  lazar  potion  hour  by  hour 
Some  new-made  grave  is  filling ; 

Touch  not  the  bowl. 


A  demon,  lingering  round  that  bowl, 
Thy  funeral  dirge  is  hymning, 

And  thousand  woes  to  curse  thy  soul 
Upon  that  bowl  are  swimming  ; 

Touch  not  the  bowl. 


PRIVATE  REMARKS  TO  THE  AMERICAN  EAGLE.      353 


PRIVATE  REMARKS  TO  THE  AMERICAN 
EAGLE. 


Old  Bird, 

Believe  this  true, — 
To  have  a  word  in  the  most  private  manner  here  with  you, 

I  like  your  style  ; 
Though   many  a  time 
It  brings  upon  my  face  a  smile 

To  see  you  swell  your  crop, 

And  flop 
As  people  say  that  poets  often  flop  in  rhyme. 

O'er  you  or  other  things  I  do  not  love  to  brag, 

But  now,  I  do  declare, 

Yes,  now  to  use  a  stronger  term,  I  even   say  I  swear 
I  like  the  way 
Through  night  and  day, 
Through  drouth  and  flood, 
And  seas  of  blood 
You've  stuck  to  our  old  flag. 

O'er  mountain  top  and  glen, 
With  Marion's  bare-foot  men, 
With  Perry  on  his  deck, 
And  at  Chepultepec  ; 
And  at  each  fearful  shock 
Of  blade  with  tomahawk, 

Old  Bird, 
Your  scream  was  heard. 


354  POEMS  BY  DAVID   BARKER. 

When  Barbara  Frietchie,  down 

At  Frederick-town, 

In  Stonewall  Jackson's  face,  and  to  the  morning  air 
The  dear  old  pennant  flung, 
The  way  you  clung 
To  that  old  pennant  there 

Gave  hope  and  courage  strong 
To  all  the  loyal  throng. 

When  Union  mothers  stood  and  placed  cold    guns 
Into  the  hands  of  their  own  darling  sons, 

And  treason  would  not  brook 
But  buttoned  'neath  their  coats  of  blue 
A  biscuit  and  a  Bible — by  heaven,  'twixt  me  and  you 

It  had  a  business  look  ; 

We  knew  there  must  be  something  in  the  cause 
The  way  you  gripped  those  arrows  in  your  claws. 

I  mind  it  well  at  Vicksburg  Height 
When  Death  stalked  'round  upon  our  right 

So  grim  and  gaunt, 
You  stood  the  storm  of  shot  and  shell, 
And  bore  along  the  "gilt-edged  hell" 
The  name  of  GRANT  ! 


Should  any  power  again 
From  seraphs  down  to  men, 
Attempt  to  force  you  from  your  eyrie  in  the  sky, 
Put  claws  deep  in  their  throat, 
Then  shriek  this  taunting  note  : 
that  for  high?' 


PRIVATE  REMARKS  TO  THE  AMERICAN  EAGLE.     355 

Let  any  one  who  can, 
The  devil,  God  or  man, 
Once  tell  me  what  the  gain  to  drag 
You  as  an  emblem  from  that  dear  old  flag, 

The  substitute  for  you  we  cannot  know — 
Perhaps  a  turkey,  buzzard  or  a  crow. 


Down  with  your  ear,  old  Bird, 
That  I  may  speak  one  word 
Without  the  slightest  risk  of  being  heard  ; 
When  Robert  Lee 
At  Appomattox  tree 
Gave  up  the  strife 
And  gave  his  carving  knife, 

Our  Governor  Chamberlain,  though  a  Christian,  swears 
You  flopped  a  little  and  kind  o'  put  on  airs. 


Old  Bird, 
But  one  word 
More  and  I  am  done  ; 
When  I  have  run 

Life's  lower  race, 

And  you  and  other  friends  shall  meet 
And  see  them  bear  me  feet 
Foremost  to  my  last  resting  place, 

Believe  this  true : 

Though  in  my  frailties  I  may  be  false  to  God  and  man, 
I  know  I  never  was,  and  think  I  never  can 
Be  false  to  our  old  flag  or  you. 


356  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 


WHAT  IS  TRUE  POETRY? 


How  many  squander  off  their  hours 
In  rhymingyfea  with  tea-, 

And  fondly  dream  it  constitutes 
The  soul  of  poetry  ! 

It  is  not  poetry  to  frame 

A  line  that  ends  with  chink, 

And  stretch  another  at  its  side 
That  ends  with  bobolink. 

True  poetry  is  never  decked — 
It  always  lives  undressed, 

But  has  a  fire  to  warm  itself 
Concealed  within  its  breast. 

Its  joy  is  this :  to  find  the  key, 

And  keep  it  in  control, 
Which  fits  the  lock  that  closes  up 

The  chambers  of  the  soul. 

And  then  it  labors  long  and  well 

To  learn  the  magic  art 
Of  throwing  on  a  screen  the  lights 

And  shadows  of  the  heart. 


KATAHDIN  IRON  WORKS.  357 


KATAHDIN  IRON  WORKS. 


This  is  his  last  earthly  song,  written  at  Katahdin  Iron  Works,  Sunday  night, 
Aug.  30,  1874,  where  be  had  gone  to  drink  the  waters  from  the  Katahdin  Iron 
Springs.  He  came  back  to  Bangor  on  the  Piscataquis  train  on  Saturday  even 
ing,  Sept  5th,  took  his  bed  Sept.  9U>,  and  died  Sept.  14tb,  1874. 


To  my  couch  in  Number  6, 

Where  one  Wilder  Taylor*  dvvelleth, 
Where  the  good  dames  round  me  fix 

Those  rare  trout  which  Wilder  selleth. 

Through  the  darksome,  livelong  night, 
Through  the  hours  to  sleep  or  ponder, 

Comes  a  stream  of  moulten  light 
From  the  Davis  foundery  yonder. 

As  the  yielding  nuggets  melt 

For  the  crimson  pigs  of  iron, 
How  it  lights  the  famous  belt 

Of  the  classical  Orion. 

Lights  the  north  star,  pinioned  there, 
Where  each  race  and  age  have  found  it, 

Lights  the  blinking  Major  Bear 
In  its  index  tramps  around  it. 


V 


358  POEMS  BY  DAVID  BARKER. 

Here  the  invalid  seeks  rest — 

Seeks  the  softened  nerve  to  harden, 

Sucking  from  each  brawny  breast 
Iron  milk  from  out  Katahdin. 

Let  the  bloated  millionaire 
And  the  worn  demented  fogy 

Gloat  around  some  bill  of  fare 
'Mid  the  plates  of  Saratoga. 

Let  the  modern-schooled  divine, 
With  his  faithless  creed  and  flurry, 

Shun  this  cool  retreat  of  mine 
For  the  Adirondack  Murray. 

Let  some  poet — made  not  born — 

With  strange  airs,  and  verse,  and  metre, 

Wake  his  harp  each  night  and  morn 
Round  the  relics  of  St.  Peter. 

Better  come  to  Number  6, 

W'here  one  Wilder  Taylor  dwelleth. 

Where  the  good  dames  round  me  fix 
Those  rare  trout  which  Wilder  selleth. 

Here  the  invalid  finds  rest, 

Finds  the  softened  nerve  to  harden, 

Sucking  from  each  brawny  breast 
Iron  milk  from  out  Katahdin. 


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